


all i think about is you

by Lady_of_the_Flowers



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bipolar Disorder, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Shameless Big Bang
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-07-14 05:12:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 29,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7154957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_of_the_Flowers/pseuds/Lady_of_the_Flowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey’s on the run from Terry after getting caught one too many times, but it still takes him a while to realize that if he wants to live to see his 21st birthday, he needs to get the hell out of the South Side, out of Chicago, out of the state entirely. That doesn’t mean he wants to go live with his Aunt Rande in the middle of fucking nowhere upstate New York, though, and he definitely doesn't want to keep making the mistakes that landed him on Terry’s shitlist in the first place, but the boy next door won't stop trying to talk to him, and soon Mickey finds himself in deeper than he ever imagined.</p><p>or: Mickey Milkovich finds a home, a family, and love - but it takes some work</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> i'd like to say thanks to [corriver](http://twoocor.tumblr.com/) for creating [this](http://i.imgur.com/7MwwMnN.jpg) amazing piece of art to accompany the story, you totally captured the mood i was going for 
> 
> content warnings in the end notes

Mickey Milkovich doesn’t believe in all that religious bullshit - heaven and hell and the immortal fucking soul - but this has got to be some kind of divine retribution for all the things he’s done, all the times he’s put the heat on someone until they cracked. He’s not sorry for having done it, business is business after all, but he gets now why it’s so effective.

Shit hits the fan on a Friday, which really kills his weekend, not that he hasn’t got bigger things to complain about. He’s a mess for a grand total of ten minutes after he escapes the house, the ice-hot shame of being caught, again, sweeping over him. He feels the usual combination of _why me_ , and _why can’t I stop_. But then his ten minutes are over, and he gets his head back in the game, pushing aside all the panic and anger and fear swirling inside him to come up with a plan.

There’s this warehouse just north of the stockyards that he likes to hang out in, sometimes. Uses it as his own personal shooting range. It's not great in bad weather, since the glass is blown out in most of the windows and the ceiling has partially collapsed, exposing him to the open air. But it’s his, and it’s safe, which is more than enough for right now. No one knows about it besides his brothers and they won’t tell, he thinks.

He even has some stuff stashed there for occasions just like this - blankets, a handgun (a Ruger LC9, not his favorite, but it’ll do), spare rounds of ammunition, a few candy bars.  He figures if he can camp out for a few days safely out of sight, the whole thing will blow over.

He’s wrong. Mickey jolts awake early the next morning to the sound of gunfire, and it’s all systems go, adrenaline pumping in his veins as Terry chases him through the warehouse. Third floor, second floor, ground floor. It's hard to see in the dim grey light and harder to breathe, air thick with dust and Terry’s screaming, things like _I’m gonna kill you, you fucking faggot, I’m gonna rip your fucking dick off_ bouncing off the walls as he unloads almost a full clip in Mickey’s direction.

Today must be Mickey’s lucky day, though, because he manages to lose Terry somewhere in the maze of rubble and rusted-out machinery, although he can still hear Terry stumbling around inside, drunk and angry. Mickey ducks out a back door and takes a moment to catch his breath, rubbing his shoulder because it feels a little weird. His fingers meet warm and wet and that's when he realizes he's been shot, the pain finally catching up with him.

“Fucking _fuck_ ,” He hisses, probing a little further. No - not shot, just grazed by a bullet. Nothing lodged in the skin, thank fuck.

He wipes his hand off on his pant leg, a long red smear, stupidly relieved it's nothing more serious. Which is not to say it doesn’t hurt, because it does. Jesus Christ, it _burns,_ the wound bleeding wetly down his back to soak the shirt under his jacket. Just one more thing he’s gotta take care of.

He makes it to Ashland Avenue on foot, then rides the bus the rest of the way down, too shaky from his second brush with death in as many days to walk the whole distance, the blood and gun sticking out of his jacket pocket making the driver think again about insisting he have a ticket. He gets off at the bus stop on 49th street, then lifts some bandages and antiseptic cream from the drugstore and patches himself up right there at the counter, ignoring the cashier cowering behind the register.

Back out on the sidewalk, he picks a random direction to go in, left or right, doesn't really matter, his head full of _plan B, okay, what’s plan B_ and frustration.

There’s always Angie Zago. She knows his secret, maybe not in so many words, but she’d have to be an idiot not to figure it out when he can’t finish half the time he’s with her (or most of the time, if he’s being honest), and she’s never run her mouth about it. But he’s not about to bring his problems to her doorstep. Angie is nothing to him, not family, definitely not a friend. And Mickey can take care of this himself.

He's so distracted he almost doesn't see the two jackasses waiting for him across the street, bulky in their winter coats. There’s no such thing as a coincidence when it comes to a Milkovich family reunion - they must have been tailing him since he left the stockyards. Betrayal surges through him, white-hot. Fuckers must have _told_ , no way Terry could have found him otherwise.

Mickey takes off down the block, but has to pull up short at the entrance to a side alley because someone’s already there, barring his way.

“What the hell, man?” He shouts, and pauses just a second before punching him squarely in the face with a pair of brass knuckles. Mickey goes down, then grabs Iggy’s legs, sending his brother tumbling to the pavement with him, “The fuck are you taking his side for?”

“Sorry,” Iggy says, and sounds it, a little. He pulls his arm back for another punch. Mickey rolls away and tries to crawl out of reach, but Iggy grabs him and keeps him down, hitting his face again and again until Mickey’s nose is bleeding warm and wet across his lips, the taste of iron flooding his mouth.

Mickey lets it happen, and breathes wetly through the pain until Iggy slows down, panting. Then he rocks forward, unbalancing his brother enough to get the upper hand, and pins Iggy in place with his knees, slamming Iggy’s right hand on the ground until his fist unclenches enough for Mickey to wrench the brass knuckles off his thick fingers.

The alley darkens momentarily with the arrival of two of his other brothers, but Mickey’s armed and ready - he’s got brass knuckles and a loaded handgun tucked into his waistband and he’s not taking any more of this shit, not today. He scrambles to his feet, pulling out the gun, and hears Iggy rise more slowly behind him, taking up position in case Mickey tries to bolt.

“Are you seriously gonna do this?” Mickey asks, and spits out a mouthful of blood, keeping the gun aimed at the space right between Joey’s eyes, “I thought you guys were on my side.”

“Terry’s pissed, Mick,” Joey says, sucking on his cheeks apologetically. He’s not visibly afraid of the gun, knows Mickey won’t shoot him, not really, “You know how he gets.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know,” He feels his anger start to fade, and tries to cling to it, but can’t. In the end, it’s not any of their faults. Terry has this way of making people do things they don’t want to do, all for fear of the alternative - being on the other side of the ass-kicking that’s about to go down.

Mickey lowers the gun, tucks it back into his pocket. He never even took the safety off.

“We gotta bring you to him. Don’t have a choice,” Joey takes a step forward, and Jamie moves with him, Iggy closing in on Mickey from behind. It’s a Milkovich Brothers classic, and he knows it well. Fear rises jagged and cold in his throat, but he stays still, eyes locked on Joey’s, because he might be scared, but he’s not a fuckin pussy.

“I’m going to remember this next time you need me to have your back,” Mickey says, keeping his voice as steady as he can, “You can fucking count on that.”

“Fair enough,” Joey says, and cracks his knuckles slowly, deliberately. Giving him time. He locks eyes with Iggy over Mickey’s head, and in the split second before they move, Mickey darts past them and runs like hell.

He runs ten, maybe fifteen blocks, until he’s sure they aren’t following him anymore. Then he collapses against the wall of a pawn shop, breathing hard through his fractured nose. God, he hates running. He knows as soon as the adrenaline wears off, he’s going to be in serious pain. What he really needs is to find another pharmacy and see if he can get his hands on something stronger than Advil, but for some reason he can’t quite convince himself to do it.

Well, no, there’s reasons. Big chains like Walgreens have surveillance tapes and better security, which he's just not up to dealing with, but there's only one other small mom and pop drugstore around and in all likelihood, Iggy and the others are already waiting there for him to show up.

The only other alternative is that ghetto pharmacist on North Wallace who’s got some of everything. Perc, Oxy, Vicodin, morphine. She’s married to the guy who runs the Alibi, he thinks, which is risky. Too close to Terry’s home turf. But they're definitely not friends of Terry’s, so that's… something. Of course, they’re not friends of Mickey’s either.

After dark, Mickey goes to wait in the alley around the corner from the Alibi, too chickenshit to go inside in case Terry’s there. The swelling starts to really get bad about an hour after he gets there, closing up his left eye and making his face feel alien, unrecognizable, beneath his curious fingers. Not too curious, though. He’s been through this before. Knows the drill.

It’s late when he hears Kevin locking up for the night. More like early morning, actually, the streets as quiet as they ever get. Frank Gallagher is passed out on the curb, strings of saliva or vomit (or both?) trailing from his mouth. He’s been worse since his kids left, people say. Eight years since they disappeared to parts unknown and took his newborn baby with them. Privately, Mickey thinks it was a smart move. Kevin stops to pull Frank’s legs out of the gutter, a look of grudging pity on his face, then heads down the street.

He obviously isn't expecting Mickey to intercept him at the corner, because he startles when Mickey calls out, “Hey. You know if your woman’s good for some Oxy?”

“Who the fuck - oh, Mickey,” Kevin looks like he’s just had a heart attack, “I don't know, man. Vee’s probably asleep now, though, so you might want to come by and ask her tomorrow.”

Mickey moves out of the shadows so Kevin can see his face, and Kevin’s eyebrows go way up.

“Shit. I guess you don't wanna wait, huh?”

“What do you think.”

Kevin sighs, reluctant, “She’s not gonna be happy about this, but yeah. Sure. Come with me.”

 Mickey follows him at a safe distance so Kevin doesn't feel free to ask questions. The house is red brick, two down from the Gallagher’s old place. Vee does seem to be asleep; the lights are off, the house is quiet. The door closes with a rattle which breaks the stillness and Kevin winces. Mickey figures out why a second later. One - no, _two_ infants start wailing from upstairs, and Vee yells down tiredly, “Kev? Is that you?”

“You have a customer, baby,” Kevin calls up the stairwell.

“At two o'clock in the morning? Who the hell is it?” She sounds annoyed, but slightly more awake.

“Mickey Milkovich.”

“For real? You let a _Milkovich_ into my house?”

Mickey exhales, irritated. He’s beginning to think he shouldn’t have come, “You want my fuckin money or not?”

“Hang on, hang on, I’m coming,” There’s a noise like footsteps on the floor above, then Vee appears on the spiral staircase with her bathrobe wrapped hastily around her. She takes one look at Mickey’s face and heads to the padlocked medicine cabinet.

“What do you want?” She asks, “Painkillers?”

“Oxy if you got some.”

“I thought you were selling. Did you run out or something?” She asks, hand on hip, looking back at him with sharp eyes in her tired face.

“No, I just -” He doesn’t know what, “Some shit came up and I don't like dipping into my product.”

“Okay,” She unlocks the cabinet and pulls out two orange pill bottles. Then she turns to Kevin and gives him a significant look, “Kev, the kids?”

He shifts awkwardly, like he wants to stay downstairs and gawk at Mickey’s fucked-up face, but Vee does something threatening with her eyebrow, and he relents.

As soon as Kevin is upstairs and the babies are quieting down, she says, “I don't like this, Milkovich. I don’t like this one bit. Next time you get yourself beat up, take your business somewhere else.”

“I wouldn't be here if I had any other choice,” He snaps, “Just give me the meds and I'm gone.”

Vee purses her lips, makes a decision, “I got 10mg, 20mg, or 80mg, your pick.”

“I’ll take four 20s.”

She counts out the pale pills in her palm and seals three in a tiny bag. She leaves the loose pill on the counter, and fills a glass with water.

“Thought you might wanna take one now. You’re looking pretty rough.”

He takes the water, “Yeah, no shit.” He swallows the pill and reaches into his pocket for his wallet, “How much?”

Vee ignores him, “That nose is going to heal like a bitch. It's grossing me out. You been near a mirror at all recently?”

He hasn’t, but he knows it’s bad, “So don’t look at it. How much do I owe you?”

“80 bucks.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? _I_ don't even charge that much. What a fucking rip-off.”

Vee gives him a version of the look she gave her husband, “Do you have any idea how much it costs to raise a family these days? I got two kids. _Twins_ , six weeks old. So unless you want to pay me in diapers, its $80.”

Her little speech is cute but he’s a Milkovich and shit like that doesn’t move him. He considers pulling his gun and walking the fuck out of there with his pills. Raiding her whole cabinet, while he’s at it. Kevin’s a nice guy, a pushover, and poses little threat while he’s upstairs with the babies. Mickey has no problem with the idea of stealing from him. But Vee, well, she’s looking at him like she knows exactly what's running through his mind, and that scares him.

“Fuck you. Fine,” He counts out his money. After this he won’t even have enough to buy a pack of cigarettes. Fuck this bitch, “You better not tell anybody I was here, alright?” He continues, trying to sound intimidating, “If Terry or one of my brothers come by, asking about me -”

“You were never here, yeah, I got it,” Vee takes his money, tucking it in the pocket of her silky bathrobe. His disbelief must show, because she rolls her eyes, “Trust me, I do _not_ want to get mixed up in your family issues. I’ll be silent as the grave.”

“Damn right.”

They stare each other down for a second, and he gets that weird feeling again, like she’s seeing too much. It’s too painful to scowl so he looks away instead, like a coward.

“You in some kinda trouble?” She asks, her voice soft all of a sudden, as if she knows jack about him or his life, “Like, real trouble?”

Mickey shrugs, uncomfortable, “I won't be if you keep your goddamn mouth shut.”

She nods briskly, and finally looks away. “Let me get you a washcloth,” She says, and turns back to the sink, “I ain't letting you out of here until you get that shit off your face.”

He wants to say no, that he doesn't need it, but he'd be lying. He tries anyway, and Vee barks at him, angry for some reason he can’t fathom, “You shut the fuck up and sit down on the couch right now. I’ll be over in a second.”

When she hands over a warm, wet cloth, it’s with an aggressive sympathy that doesn’t bother Mickey nearly as much as it should.

He mops gingerly at the dried blood on his face, avoiding the broken cartilage of his nose. It’s a high break, right below the bridge, which explains the pain. Last few times it didn’t hurt nearly so bad. When he’s done there, he pulls one arm out of his jacket and yanks down the neck of his shirt so he can check on his shoulder. The bandage is pretty saturated, but the bleeding has stopped for now.

Vee makes a faint noise when she sees the bullet-wound, and Mickey suspects she wants to pull out her first aid kit and _fuss_ , so he tugs his jacket back on before she has a chance to, “Alright, good to go. Thanks for the, uh, hospitality or whatever.”

“Wait -” She stops him at the door, lowering her voice, “I have a friend named Latasha, she lives on 59th and Union Avenue, works at the same nursing home I do. If you need more, she can hook you up. It’s better if you don’t come back here.”

Mickey doesn't know what to do with that information, so he nods and shuts the door behind him. He hears Vee doing up the locks, all four of them, and then the lights switch off inside.

He should have known they had kids. He vaguely remembers Kevin boasting about it one night at the Alibi, but Mickey goes there so infrequently it slipped his mind. It makes him trust them less, no matter what Vee said. Kids are good collateral, they make people kinda crazy trying to protect them, a weakness Terry has never been afraid to exploit.

Too fucking late now. The 20 mg are just starting to kick in - he can still feel the nose and the shoulder but it's like someone threw a thick blanket over the pain, making it easier to ignore. He’s good to walk all night if he has to, or at least until the nausea hits.

There’s an empty house just west of the Yards that he’s seen a few times while scouting for new hideouts, and although it’s got a padlock on the front door, the plywood over the back window is easy to pry up. No sign of squatters, which is good, and no one in his entire extended family knows he comes here, which is better. He’s confident Terry won’t find him - he isn’t drawn to the city’s hidden places the way Mickey is, doesn't feel the need to haul ass twenty blocks just for a moment of peace and quiet, just to feel like a goddamn _human_ once in awhile.

Despite all that, Mickey still spends the night shivering in a corner, clutching his gun as he listens to rats scrabble in the walls. The oxy has him slightly dizzy and disoriented, for which he blames his low tolerance, and he keeps losing his train of thought, everything just kind of folding together. He dozes fitfully for a while, curled up in his jacket, but at every sound he jerks awake, fighting against the opiate heaviness. It’s not the best night of his life.

Morning traffic wakes him from a weird, distorted dream about that one time their mom took him and Mandy to the Lincoln Park Zoo before she died. He shakes off the memory, and stands up, stretching, before the piercing hurt of his scabbed-over shoulder reminds him not to. He touches his face, the swelling by his nose, the various cuts and bruises. Time for another pill.

Sunlight comes through the cracks in the boarded-up windows, bright and golden-white. He wants to go back outside but he can't - he knows Terry’s waiting for him, somewhere. So Mickey explores the rest of the house instead, looking for any supplies the former tenants might have left behind. Canned food, water, anything.

He finds three empty bedrooms upstairs and a bathroom with the pipes ripped out. Same story with the kitchen and living room he slept in on the ground floor. The basement is dark and mildewed, making it impossible to see his own hands in front of his face. Fucking useless. His mouth is dry and scratchy, he can still feel the slow slide of that morning’s pill down his throat, like it's stuck there.

Eventually hunger and thirst win out over common sense. He climbs into the overgrown back yard from the window and cuts down the alley to 47th. He’s planning to hit the Kash and Grab on Ashland but as soon as he gets close, he sees Iggy’s shit-brown 1980 Ford Mustang parked out front and has to turn around, pulling up the hood of his jacket over his head, heart going a mile a minute. Okay, so they’re staking out his usual places. Okay, okay. He tells himself not to panic. Iggy probably didn't even see him, he is not the best at long-term surveillance, always gets bored and starts playing games on his fancy-ass phone. Angry Birds or some shit.

Mickey goes back onto 47th and walks west to the Mobile station, where the cashier is literally taking a fucking nap behind the counter. Mickey slides in, making sure not to jingle the bells hanging on the glass door, and stuffs his pockets with protein bars and bags of nuts and bottles of water. Ignoring the good stuff sucks but even he knows that running for his life on a starvation diet of Doritos and Snickers bars will make him sick.

As he leaves, he thinks the cashier might be starting to wake up, but not soon enough to get a good look at Mickey, which is what counts. Mickey is grinning as he walks down the street, filled with the sense of satisfaction that only comes from getting away with something petty and stupid and _fun_. He gulps down half of a water bottle, his thirst quenched at last.

Mickey spends the rest of that day and most of the next holed up in the abandoned house, alternately furious at Terry for putting him through this and furious at himself for thinking he could do whatever he wanted without repercussions. The only upside, not that it counts, is that his mother didn't live to see this. She wouldn't have been able to stop it, but she always tried, he remembers that much. She always tried.

Mickey slumps down on the dirty wooden floor, back against the wall, and digs his fingers hard into his eyes. The worst part is that this isn't the first time. The first time, he was let off easy with two broken ribs and the Russian riding his soft dick as he tried not to hyperventilate, his father’s voice still ringing in his ears. _I catch you with your hands down another guy’s pants one more time I'm gonna kill you on sight, no questions asked, no excuses._

And despite all the promises Mickey made to himself in the aftermath, that he’d quit thinking about guys, quit lookin’ at them, keep his hands to his fucking self, he couldn’t follow through. Obviously. So here he goes again, for one more ride on a sick merry-go-round.

His phone died about a day ago, and he’s only starting to miss it now. Before it was just a nuisance. Customers kept texting him, looking to buy, but he doesn’t have any product and doesn’t want to risk a set-up. So he's glad he doesn't have to deal with that anymore, but he also really feels like getting in touch with Mandy right now, and of course he can't.

It's kind of like a secret code they have, only not as gay. One or the other of them says _hey I was thinking about Mom today_ and it doesn't matter what they’re doing, if they’re in a fight or something, they always find time to sit together and get high. They don't talk about it, really, what they’re doing and why, but it's something. Just for the two of them. Iggy, Joey, Jamie, and Tony were all older when she died, but Mickey and Mandy are only separated by a year, and they were always the closest - to Mom, and to each other.

That is what’s running quietly in the back of Mickey’s mind when he decides to break into his own house and retrieve his cellphone charger, plus a few extra things, just for good measure. It's a stupid idea, he knows that right from the start, but he does it anyway, because he needs to.

The break-in goes well, at first. The house seems empty, the front door locked. He jimmies his bedroom window at just the right angle to push it open, and it makes a horribly loud grating sound. For a second, Mickey freezes, listening for any sign of movement indoors, but there is none. So he pushes the window the rest of the way up and hoists himself inside.

The room is dark, it doesn't get much sunlight this time of afternoon, and smells pretty rank - like sweat and dirty laundry and stale beer. A fly buzzes slowly around an open week-old can of Budweiser he thought he'd have a chance to finish.

Mickey works quickly to fill an old backpack with clean boxers and T-shirts, a pill bottle of oxy and another of high-grade weed, socks, money, his phone charger, basically anything he can think of. He wraps his best knife and Walther P99 in a sweatshirt, burying them at the bottom of his bag. He opens the door as carefully as he can, lifting it a little on the hinges so it doesn't squeak, and creeps into the living room.

The place looks about the same as when he left, although all the overturned furniture has been righted. Mandy’s doing, is his guess. He grabs an unopened pack of smokes from the carton on the coffee table and Iggy’s favorite lighter, which the douchebag shouldn't have left sitting out if he didn't want it to get taken. Looking around the living room, he has the strangest sense that he won't be back for a long time and this is some twisted form of goodbye. It's bullshit, of course, but he still can't shake the feeling.

Mickey has just opened the fridge and is digging around for a six-pack he knows he shoved in there a few days ago unless his asshole brothers _drank it all_ when he hears a car pull into the parking space in front of the house. The engine is loud before it dies away, too loud, like it's missing a muffler and oh, _shit_ , he knows that car.

He barely has time to dive back into his room before the locks on the door are turning and he hears someone walk into the house. He crouches, petrified, by the foot of his bed, and listens as whoever it is walks past his room towards the kitchen. He thinks he's safe, and is about to stand up to climb back out the window, when his door creaks open just an inch, and the footsteps halt.

The door flies open and it's Tony, thank fuck, standing there with a look of stunned surprise on his face that quickly turns to warning.

“You gotta get out, _now_ ,” He hisses urgently, “Dad’s coming. _Go_.”

And sure enough, a second set of heavy footsteps are approaching from the entryway. Mickey gets to his feet, ready to make a run for it, but then some strange feeling overtakes him, makes time slow to a crawl. Mickey thinks he’s moving, but he could also be standing still - he can’t tell, he’s so afraid, but there’s relief in there too. Relief to finally get this over with after so many  years spent waiting, dreading, ever since he had that first vague thought in the middle of the night that there was something wrong with him, and one day someone would see it.  

“What the hell are you looking at in there?” Terry starts, and then he catches sight of Mickey, “You cock-sucking piece of shit, what did I tell you about coming back here? What did I tell you, huh?”

Mickey knows the answer but his lips are numb, he can’t speak.

“I said I was gonna kill you, didn’t I? I'm gonna blow your brains out and you’re gonna thank me because a faggot like you never shoulda be born and you know it, you know it, you fucking queer pussy bitch -” He pulls out a gun from his jacket, and Mickey’s still frozen, some serious deer in the headlights shit, dimly aware that he's gonna get it now, he's really going to get it.

Terry aims, but the shot Mickey braces himself for doesn’t come. He’s not entirely sure why. In dreams sometimes he gets shot but it doesn’t hurt. So is this a dream? But then things start to speed up a little, his brain gets back online, and he realizes Tony has fucking _tackled_ Terry, knocking the gun aside. Terry’s finger twitches on the trigger anyway and the gun fires, shattering the lamp on Mickey’s bedside table, and oh, shit, Mickey’s fully awake now.

They scuffle for a bit in the doorway, Terry red-faced and spitting garbled insults at Mickey, at Tony, at their dead whore of a mother.

“Run, Mick!” Tony shouts, just as Terry breaks free from the headlock, reaching down for the gun. There’s no time to waste. Mickey tosses the backpack out the window first, and follows it to the ground. He lands hard on his ankle but it doesn’t matter - he’s running as fast as he can, all his survival instinct kicking in like it never left him.

Terry must find the gun again, because Mickey hears bullets whistle past him as he jumps the backyard fence, and spares a split-second to look behind him, see his father leaning out the window aiming right at him, before he rounds the corner and is out of range. The shouting continues after the gunfire stops, indistinct, swallowed up by the noise of a passing train, but Mickey doesn’t need to hear it to know what’s being said.

He has to stop a minute later, so dizzy and sick he can't keep running. He braces himself against a wall and gags a couple of times, but manages to keep everything down. This isn’t good. His endurance is shot to shit, nerves jangling from the close encounter. It would be a walk in the fucking park for Terry to take him out right now, while he’s still crouched in the alley trying to catch his breath.

So Mickey pulls the Walther P99 out of his backpack and checks to make sure it's loaded, then puts it in his other jacket pocket. Idiot, he had a gun with him the whole time. Well, now he has two - his favorite and a spare.He stands back up, waiting out the headrush. He needs to keep walking, even if he’s too nauseous right now to run. Needs to stick to the alleys and avoid the main roads. Alleys are safe, too narrow to drive down with any speed, and he bets anything that Terry is getting into his car right now to circle the neighborhood searching for him.

There isn’t anything left at his most recent safehouse besides some trash, so Mickey doesn’t bother going back there. He has no way of knowing whether he’ll ever be back, but it would be nice to keep Terry from finding it, just in case he wants to use it again in the future. No way of telling if he’s got a future to speak of either, though, so maybe he should just stop thinking entirely.

His ankle starts to bother him around 49th Street, so he pops another Oxy even though he’ll probably be where he needs to go by the time it kicks in. Where he needs to go, he’s decided, is the neighborhood just past Sherman Park, to one of the many abandoned buildings south of Garfield Boulevard. Although being a white guy in a black neighborhood will probably draw unwanted attention, there’s no denying that the park and its immediate surroundings are outside Milkovich territory, which is the important part. If he can get there without Terry finding him, he’ll be fine for the rest of the day. Maybe a couple days, if he’s lucky.

It takes him a few tries to find a building that’s sufficiently out of the way with no close neighbors and no signs of squatters. Wouldn't have taken so long if he'd been able to use main streets, but whatever, this is his life now. The boarded up brick building he chooses looks like it was an old garage or workshop, back in the day. The concrete slab floor is stained with oil, and there are still some greasy tools on the metal shelves. He picks them up. A wrench, a screwdriver, a handful of nails. Nothing useful, but it doesn’t matter. He’ll be safe here, he thinks - the place looks and smells like it hasn’t been disturbed in almost twenty years, judging by the dates on the dusty pile of skin mags on the shelf. 

Days later, the Sherman Park hideout is still working well for him. Mickey’s wary of relaxing into a routine too soon, but he’s feeling a lot better. His nose is healing, the swelling down almost to nothing although the bruises remain, and the bullet wound on his shoulder is scabbed over and itchy like it should be. There are enough convenience stores around for him not to have to hit each more than once, which greatly reduces his chances of getting caught, so he’s eating regularly, at least, even if it’s still not enough.

The garage is cold and dark, but he’s kind of past caring at this point. Yeah, he’d prefer he didn’t have to spend every night lying awake, tense and freezing and too scared to get drunk in case Terry comes busting in after dark - but he’s also gained a newfound appreciation for libraries, so you win some, you lose some.

There’s a tiny public library right on the edge of Sherman Park. He finds it one day when it’s windy and raining and he’s so sick of being trapped in the garage he doesn’t even care about the weather, although he should. He remembers, vaguely, Mandy going to the library in the Yards when she was little and hiding out among the stacks to avoid the latest argument between Terry and their mother. He thinks - why not?

The librarian looks at him like he’s the dirtiest white boy in America, which by now he probably is, but no one stops him from hanging out there for hours at a time when it’s raining or too cold to stay in the unheated garage. In fact, he seems to have unofficially joined a core group of regulars, most of whom ignore him. On his third day, though, a woman in a slightly torn pink coat tells him that if he wants a shot at using one of the two computers he should try to get there right when the library opens at 8 like the rest of them do

He’s confused by the advice until he realizes she thinks he’s homeless. Hell, he _is_ homeless. Basically. It makes him feel kind of sick. If Terry doesn’t let him come back...it’s not worth thinking about. He won’t know ‘til he knows.

Even though he’s got his charger and cellphone and a regular source of electricity, he doesn’t text Mandy. He doesn’t want her to get involved in all this shit, but he does keep his phone on, just in case. In case she gets in trouble or something and needs him to help her out. He wonders sometimes how bad Tony got it for helping him, if Tony’s alright, but he doesn’t text him either.

Instead he grabs his usual book - _The Outsiders_ \- from the YA Fiction shelf and settles cross-legged on the carpet next to his phone so it doesn’t get stolen. The library is quiet, but not the same empty quiet of the garage, and it makes him feel less isolated. It’s a relief to be out of his own head for a while as he reads, and he starts to lose track of his surroundings a little bit, getting caught up in the story like some queer.

All Mickey can say in his own defense is that if he’d known in 9th grade that some of the books on the reading list were going to be like this, he might’ve come to class a little more often.

Outside it’s one of those cold, blustery fall days that Mickey used to hate as a kid because of how they kept everyone cooped up in the house, stepping on each other’s toes, causing arguments to break out at twice the usual rate. Everybody knows days like this mean the end of summer, mean it’s time to start bracing yourself for the shitty Chicago winter. Mickey avoids eye contact with the woman in the pink jacket as she shuffles past him to the gardening section. He doesn’t know how any of these people make it through the winter without a place to stay. He doesn’t know how he will either, if Terry doesn’t ease up or get arrested.  

The background hum of little library noises - phone ringing, someone typing, a child’s too-loud whisper - are barely noticeable the deeper he gets in his book. Johnny has just decided to come clean about killing Bob, and he and Ponyboy are rushing back to the church they’ve been squatting, which is on fucking _fire_ , when Mickey gets the creeping sensation of someone watching him.

Mickey glances around, trying not to lift his head and draw attention to himself, and catches the librarian at the desk staring straight in his direction with a little frown as she talks into the phone.

Her voice is hushed, “Yes, yes, he’s here right now, in fact. Do you want me to get him for you?” She falls silent as whoever it is on the other end speaks, then says, “Oh, okay. Twenty minutes, okay.”

Mickey can’t know for sure, he tells himself. Just because it seems like it doesn’t mean it’s actually Terry on the other end, doesn’t mean he’s coming. But he can’t shake the feeling. Between the look in the librarian’s eyes and the way Mickey’s heart is pounding its way out of his chest, Mickey doesn’t have a choice - he grabs his backpack, cell-phone, and charger and makes a dash for the door, pushing over a book cart as he goes. The librarian rises from her seat in alarm, a tinny voice issuing from the phone clutched in her hand, but he’s gone before she can do anything about it.  

He’s not about to wait around for Terry to come by and shoot up a goddamn _library_ just because he’s in it.

And yeah, he thought he was doing a good job of laying low the past few days, but he must have been wrong, if Terry managed to figure out where he is. It’s time to change strategies. Mickey wastes an hour pacing back and forth in the garage, trying to think of what to do, where to go next. His head’s a mess, keeps telling him to run without telling him where.

Eventually he decides to go back to the warehouse where this whole nightmare started, even though he knows it’s probably not going to work out well for him. But he needs the blankets stashed there, now that nighttime temperatures are starting to drop below freezing, and he’s hoping that Terry won’t look for him in the same place twice.

It’s dusk by the time he makes it to the stockyards, since he had to take a roundabout route to avoid both Back of the Yards and New City where too many people know him. With his hood pulled up and a few days’ growth on his face, he’s pretty sure he’s disguised, but he still keeps his head down and stays out of the irregular pools of orange light on the cracked pavement. There’s no one on the street, not even any passing cars, although sirens ring out somewhere in the distance

His legs are fucking tired, feet aching in his beat-up shoes. His stomach hurts too - he’s hungry, had a granola bar on his way to the library this morning but that’s it so far for today. When this whole thing is over, he decides, he’s going to have Mandy make him the biggest, juiciest cheeseburger in all of Chicago, and he’s going to eat it on the couch while watching TV and he is never _ever_ going to let this happen to him again. No matter what it takes, no matter what he thinks he wants in the moment, when his dick is hard and the other person is giving him that look.

The warehouse looms out of the darkness ahead of him, overgrown and crumbling, unchanged since the last time he was here. It’s only him that feels different. Older somehow. He picks up the pace a little, and as he gets closer, he notices some new graffiti scrawled across the brick exterior, right by his usual entrance.

It takes him a second to read it - it’s dark this far from the streetlights and his eyes have never worked great - and when he does, a bolt of panic so intense it’s almost painful shoots through him.

MICKEY MILKOVICH IS A DEAD MAN

He stumbles backwards, almost tripping over the busted-up pavement. Terry knew he’d come back. Probably left a lookout too, figuring it was only a matter of time before Mickey showed up. He keeps forgetting that Terry _knows_ him, maybe not his soul or whatever, but knows how he operates - taught him most of it himself. He can’t pull anything on Terry. Terry will always figure it out.

Mickey’s too desperate to get away to pay attention to where he’s going so he gets kind of lost and has to retrace his steps to get out of the stockyards, a pointless waste of time. He’s having trouble thinking clearly, for whatever reason, but one thing he knows with terrible certainty is that can’t stay here. There’s nowhere left in the South Side for him to go. It’s breaking his fucking heart - he’s a South Side boy, this place is his entire life - but Terry is everywhere, knows everything and Mickey’s never gonna break free if he doesn’t get out. It feels futile, but he has to try, keep trying, go until he can’t go anymore.

The nearest L station is all the way in motherfucking McKinley Park, so he heads northwest ‘til he gets to Archer Street. He can’t stop himself from glancing over his shoulder every couple of seconds as he runs. His muscles are screaming at him to stop but he can’t, he has to keep running - it’s the one thing he can hold onto, stops him from seeing his name scrawled across the one place he used to feel safe.

His panic only heightens once he gets to the station and has to stand on the platform, totally exposed in the humming greenish lights as he waits for the train. He half expects Terry or his brothers to emerge out of the shadows and kill him right there in full view of the other passengers, but they don’t come, and he boards the train as soon as it pulls in, hands still shaking, exhausted. 

It’s warm inside the car, and after a while Mickey’s eyes stop watering once they adjust to the bright lights. He’s tense for a long time, full of adrenaline with no outlet, but the further away they get, the more rattling of the train on its tracks seems soothing, in a hypnotic kind of way. And while he never quite lets down enough to sleep, he feels quiet and restful and empty as the train makes its way north to the downtown loop, and that’s enough.

He’ll do this for a while, he thinks. Until he finds somewhere better to go.

Days pass and he keep moving, walking around different neighborhoods during the day and riding the trains at night. Leaving the South Side has made him vulnerable in new ways. He doesn’t know these places as well, doesn’t know their secrets. But they don’t know him, either, which is a relief.

He’s fucked up countless times before, or Terry’s thought he’s fucked up, which is the same thing really, but this is different. This is the real deal, the end of the fucking line, if he doesn’t figure out a way to save his ass.

It’s not like this outcome is so unthinkable, he knew it was going to happen at some point, but he thought he’d have a little more time. He wishes he’d had the foresight to establish some out-of-town contacts that aren’t associated with the Milkovich family business. He wishes his brothers hadn’t sided with Terry. He wishes he wasn’t a fag.

But hey, if wishes were horses, right?

Eight days into what is turning out to be the worst week in Mickey’s life, Mandy texts him: _so i talked to aunt rande_

 _who??_ He replies. He’s riding the downtown loop, switching trains every few stops, restless but too exhausted to do more than glare back at the commuters side-eying his bloodstained clothes.

_aunt rande, fuckface. u remember. lives in ny._

And yes, he does remember, vaguely. The one member of his family who got out, and stayed out. A ghost his father never refers to by name.

_what abt her?_

_meet me at the empty lot on 41 st at 8 and ill tell u_

It’s probably a trap, which makes his stomach turn, but it’s also his sister, so he does as she says, glad he’s packing heat and can shoot his way out if anybody else shows up.

Mandy is waiting for him, alone, leaning up against the chain-link fence in her short skirt and satiny bomber jacket. Mickey has to admit the location is a good choice - the streetlights are blown out on either side of the lot, creating an area of dense shadow. As soon as she spots him, she waves and digs around in her handbag for a pack of cigarettes. She lights one and passes it to him, then lights another for herself.

“So what’s this shit about Aunt Rande, huh?” He asks, taking a drag - his first cigarette in two days, fuck his fucking _life_ \- and exhales smoke and steam into the cold air. In the gloom, she looks tired, like maybe she hasn’t been having a great couple weeks either.

“It’s good to see you too,” She says, and he can hear the eye-roll.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Mandy grins, exhaling a cloud of smoke, and Mickey can’t stop himself from smiling back.

“I told her what’s up and she said you can hide out with her for a while in New York,” Mandy answers, “Terry doesn't know she’s out there. You’d be safe.” 

“What did you tell her?” He demands, even though he knows it is in no way the thing he should be focusing on, “Did you tell her what I -”

“Chill out,” She says, sounding annoyingly calm, “I just said you were in some serious trouble with dad and yeah, before you leap down my throat about it, I _did_ mention it had something to do with you being gay. It’s fine, though. She doesn’t care.”

“Jesus Christ, Mandy,” He rubs his hand over his face, remembering about the tender cartilage of his nose too late, “Ow, fuck. You got no right to tell her my personal business.”

She eyes him curiously, “So...you’re not denying it? The gay thing?”

He shrugs, too uncomfortable for words.

“You could’ve told me, you know? I wouldn’t have cared,” Her voice is so soft.

“I’m not fucking gay, okay?” He says, because he has to, “I have sex with guys, yeah, but that’s not - there’s a difference.”

Mandy nods, but she’s not fooling him. He knows what she’s thinking. God, he wants this conversation to be over. The thought of people knowing what he does, what he likes, makes him feel awful and sick.

“Anyway, it doesn’t even matter,” He says, “There’s no fucking way I’m moving to New York. Terry’s her brother, he’ll find us in a week, tops. And the second he comes knocking she’ll give me up if she has half a brain.”

“She’s nothing like him,” Mandy said, anger flashing across her face, “She - we talk on the phone sometimes. She got in touch with me a couple years ago, right when things started getting bad with Terry,” Mandy trails off, “She’s a good person, Mick.”

“Awesome for you,” He manages to say. His throat is tight, like it gets whenever he thinks about what Mandy’s been going through and how he hasn’t done a goddamn thing to stop it.

“This is serious, Mickey. It’s not going to blow over. He’s out for blood,” Mandy reaches out and touches his arm before he shrugs her off, “And even if he stops trying to kill you, you’re still not gonna be welcome at the house. Maybe ever.”

“Yeah, no shit this is serious,” He snaps. Her words are like a punch to the gut, “But I’m not moving to New York, alright? Chicago is my home _._ The only way I’m leaving is dead.”

“Well, that’s what you’re gonna be if you stick around much longer!” Mandy says, her voice ringing out too loud in the empty street, then gets that mulish look on her face like she’s going to stand by what she said even though she regrets it.

“It’s okay. I know I fucked up,” He says quietly.

“You didn’t, though,” She says, and Mickey has to look away, “You didn’t, okay? Dad - _Terry’s_ the one who fucked up. You don’t deserve this. You _know_ you don’t deserve this.”

He’s pretty sure she wouldn’t want to hear him tell her that this is exactly what he deserves for being a stupid shit who couldn’t keep his dick in his pants for even one whole year since the last incident, who got so caught up in the prospect of a whole weekend of sex without fear that he fucked up one of the biggest deals Terry had in the works, so he stays silent, avoiding eye-contact.

“Jesus, Mickey,” She says when he doesn’t respond, and tugs at a strand of her hair in frustration, “Terry’s really done a number on you. He’s a piece of shit and you deserve to be able to fuck whoever the hell you want.”

The problem is not so much who he was fucking, but who was fucking _him_ , Mickey thinks, but doesn’t say that either.

“I coulda picked a better spot than the middle of the living room though, right?” She doesn’t laugh, “What happened to the, uh, other guy?”

 “Skipped town as soon as Terry caught you,” Mandy’s face tells him what she thinks of that, “He’s safe. Terry couldn’t give a shit about him.”

“Good,” Mickey rubs the side of his mouth, a nervous gesture he hasn’t been able to break, “I mean, whatever.”

Mandy smirks, but her voice is still serious, “Give Aunt Rande a chance. That’s all I’m asking. There’s a bus leaving for New York City every day this week. I’ll buy you a ticket, and give you enough money to get a connection from there to upstate. She’ll pick you up from the station and everything. She said she would.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” She asks, peering at him through the smoke.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll think about it.”

Mandy sags with relief, “I just - I want one of us to make it out, Mickey. One of us has to.”

“What about you, if I go?” He asks, although he knows the answer. Nothing will change. Things will only get worse, one day at a time.

“I got more brothers where you came from,” She shoves his injured shoulder playfully, and he yelps, ignoring the way she side-steps the question.

“Watch it, shithead,” He says, and shoves her back. Fuck, he’s missed her, “Don’t you got somewhere else to be?”

“Yeah,” Mandy checks the time on her cellphone, “I should probably get back. Terry doesn’t know I left.”

“Alright. See you,” Mickey says. He doesn’t ask how things are at home, how she’s holding up, “I’ll be in touch.”

“You better,” She threatens, and he watches her walk away into the dark.

He lingers for a moment longer against the fence, then walks in the opposite direction. He’s not sure what to make of Mandy getting Aunt Rande involved in his shitstorm of a life, even less sure what to make of Rande’s offer. It seems dubious, the kind of offer you make just to be polite or if Mandy pressures you into it, which she’s good at. And anyway, it shouldn’t be him going away to New York, it should be Mandy - she should live somewhere safe, with someone who understands what she’s been going through. Mickey’s fine right where he is.

Okay. Not fine. But he’s not leaving, fucking _nothing_ will ever be enough to make him leave Chicago. Still, if things are as bad as Mandy seems to think they are, then maybe he should start considering his options, stop trying to tough it out on his own. It goes against his nature to ask for help, but he needs it, he can’t keep going like this. He doesn’t have a lot of other options, is the problem, but family is family - blood is blood - so maybe…

It is a bit of a trek to his Uncle Ronnie’s house overlooking the I-90 in Canaryville, but Mickey is hoping it’ll be worth his while. Ronnie and Terry don’t get along very well, even though (probably because) they’re brothers, but he always seemed to like Mickey. Or at least doesn’t actively dislike him. Plus, Mickey is tight with his sons. He took over their pill business last summer when they switched to heroin and still runs deliveries for them sometimes, so he trusts them, as much as he trusts anyone.

At this point, though, he doesn’t even care if they rat him out to Terry in the morning if he can spend just one night out of the cold on their couch, take a shower, eat a real meal. Maybe he’ll leave in the middle of the night, just to be safe. That would probably be a good idea.

All the lights in the house are on, glowing yellow behind the venetian blinds. It’s the most welcome sight in the world. Mickey runs up the steps to the front door even though it makes him kind of dizzy and rings the bell, leaning his forehead against the metal grate over the door while he waits. The blinds on the front window twitch, and he rings the doorbell again, really leans on it, so he can’t be ignored.

Eventually he hears the locks turning, and the door opens a crack. It’s Uncle Ronnie, peering out at him suspiciously through the grate, while a toddler screams a series of nonsense syllables somewhere out of sight.

 “Hey, how’s it going?” He asks, to be polite. He hasn’t come by the house since September, doesn’t remember him having another kid.

“What are you doing here?” Uncle Ronnie frowns. Before Mickey can answer, a woman yells over the screaming, “Who is it?”

“No one. Don’t worry,” Ronnie unlocks the grate and steps out onto the porch, closing the door quickly behind him.

Mickey doesn’t know what the fuck is going on, but decides to get right down to business anyway, “Can I crash here tonight?”

Uncle Ronnie sighs, which is not a good sign, and Mickey shifts nervously in place. He’s not sure how much his uncle knows, doesn't want to give anything away if he doesn't have to.

“You can’t be here right now,” Uncle Ronnie says, “I don’t want Terry to know you’ve been talking to me.”

“You don’t gotta to _tell_ him.”

“It’s not that easy,” He glances up and down the street, speaking in a harsh whisper, “My woman’s got me going straight these days, doesn’t want me mixed up in Terry’s bullshit anymore. I have a family, a business to run. I don’t want any part of your drama with Terry, okay?”

“It’s not drama -”

“No, you’re right, it’s more than that,” Uncle Ronnie gives him this really serious look, and it chills Mickey down to his toes, “You know what you did. You know what it means.”

“I’m a dead man walking,” Mickey says, filling in the blanks. Hearing it from his own lips is harder than Mickey thought it would be.

Ronnie must see some of what Mickey’s feeling reflected on his face, because he sighs again and runs a hand through his close-cropped hair, “I just don’t get it - you’re a smart kid. What the hell were you thinking? He left you in charge while he was gone, and what did you do?” It’s a rhetorical question, clearly. Mickey knows what he did, and Ronnie isn’t waiting for an answer.

“You missed the drop-off on that order of Uzis, since you were too busy screwing around, and now Terry is down five grand and up to his neck in shit from the Russians. You _know_ how seriously he takes people messing with his reputation.”

“Yeah, I do. I was being stupid, I get that,” Mickey says, voice kind of unsteady, “But everyone’s acting like I’m the first Milkovich to ever make a mistake. Could you - could _someone_ fucking cut me some slack?”

Ronnie shakes his head, “Look, kid. There’s mistakes, and then there’s mistakes, you get my meaning? Taking it up the ass when you should’ve been handing over the guns is -”

“Okay, alright, okay,” Mickey stops him, loudly. He doesn’t want to hear it, “So what are you saying I should do? Just give up?”

“Run,” Uncle Ronnie says simply, “As far as you can. And don’t come back ‘til he’s dead or locked up for good.”

“Fuck,” Mickey kicks the railing, making it shudder, “Shit.”

Uncle Ronnie reaches out and squeezes Mickey’s shoulder, “It’s time to go,” He says, almost gently, “Good luck, kid.”

Mickey trudges back down the stairs as Ronnie goes back inside, locks the door. The thing to do now would be to get back on the train and spend another night jostled along the endless tracks in the artificial blue-bright light. But it’s such a shitty fucking prospect, he just - he can’t make himself do it anymore.

Despite evidence to the contrary, he’s not actually stupid. He knows that two different people giving him the same advice means he should consider it. And he’s desperate, is the thing. He’s at the end of his fucking rope.

So he texts Mandy: _u still got that bus ticket?_

She replies less than thirty seconds later,  _you bet_

They agree to meet in the men’s room at Union Station the next day, because it’s crowded and anonymous, and might make Terry think he took a train instead, if he gets word that Mickey was here. Mickey arrives a few minutes early, and stares at himself in the mirror over the sinks, charting the good, the bad, and the ugly of his face. His black eyes have faded from purple to a sick yellow-green, and there’s new bump in the bridge of his nose. A scruffy beard disguises the lower half of his face, and with his hood pulled up he’s barely recognizable even to himself.

Mandy texts him in advance, so he has time to hide in a stall before she arrives. It’s not rush-hour, so the bathroom is basically empty except for him, but still - you can never be too careful.

Mandy comes barging into the stall all bundled up in a hoodie she definitely stole from one of their brothers - judging by its size and design. Mickey is momentarily overwhelmed by the smell of her body-wash, the one flaw in her plan to be invisible, anonymous, but then she presses a printout of his bus ticket into his hand and he’s distracted.

“This will take you as far as New York City, and then you need to transfer to the Port Authority bus terminal, where you can catch a bus upstate,” She hands him a second printout, all business, “I’ll text you Rande’s number so you can let her know when you’ll be getting in.”

He nods, and then she holds up a bulging plastic THANK YOU bag, “I brought you as much cash as I could find, so like $800, and there’s a change of clothing in here too,” The corner of her mouth lifts in a smile, “That’s because you smell like ass. I wouldn’t wanna be stuck sitting next to you for fifteen hours.”

“Yeah, well, you won’t have to,” He says, and her smile drops. It hits him again that he’s leaving, actually leaving, and she’s not coming with him, so he says more seriously, “Listen, if you ever need anything from me, I’ll help you out. No matter what it is.”

“You’ve already done a lot for me, Mickey,” She says, and he shakes his head. He knows it isn’t enough, it could never be enough, and fuck, he wishes he had more time, “Just get the hell out of town, and if you’re ever back again, we’ll see. Okay?”

“I’m coming back. Give it a month or two, he’ll calm down. I’ll be back,” He says, more confident than he feels.

Mandy just sighs and wraps her skinny arms around his neck in a brief, tight hug, “Yeah, whatever. Now get your shit together and get on that bus.”

She lets go, rubs at her eyes, which are definitely teary, and then she’s gone.

Mickey assumes he’ll be too jacked-up to sleep on the ride, even buys himself a cup of coffee at the train station with the money Mandy gave him just to make sure his exhaustion doesn’t win, but it turns out to be a waste of caffeine. Once he’s actually _on_ the bus, and Chicago is shrinking into the distance like a bad dream, he passes the fuck out for the full fifteen hours, waking up just in time to watch the New York skyline come into view from across the marshlands.

The bus drops him off at an open-air depot one block away from a river. The Hudson, maybe? Mickey shoulders his backpack and walks down to the waterfront, just to see it. It’s nothing special, not that he expected to be. New York City, whatever.

He has a couple hours to kill before he needs to catch the bus upstate, and he’s sure as hell not going to spend them staring out at the restless grey water, full of thoughts he doesn’t want to deal with right now, or ever. He picks a direction and walks a few blocks until he finds a subway station then jumps the turnstile to board a Brooklyn-bound A-train.

He might not know much about New York City but he knows Brooklyn - he’s heard of it, at least. And he doesn’t like how much Manhattan is reminding him of downtown Chicago, all glass high-rises and broad avenues. When he’s riding the train, it’s better - underground, so he can’t see shit outside the scratched-up windows, only the reflections of the other passengers standing next to him as they rattle along through the darkness. He thought he’d feel different, being here, but he just feels the same: clean clothes on a dirty body, still tired after all that sleep, angry as hell.

The train surfaces after it crosses into Brooklyn, rising high on elevated tracks, and this is familiar too, but better, more like home. The passengers who get on this side of the river (another river? Who knows) are mostly Black and Hispanic, and outside the windows he can see tar-black rooftops and fire escapes, pawn shops and delis and cigarette outlets. Mickey eases back into his seat, backpack between his legs. This is what he comes from, what he’s used to. It’s easier to breathe, here.

When the train stops at 14th street, Mickey gets out, and starts to walk, no fixed destination, just letting the streets take him wherever they go. He’s not normally this impulsive, but he needs to think, and he can’t do it on the train. He lights a cigarette from the pack Mandy snuck into the bag of clothes she gave him, and looks at the people, looks at the buildings. A train squeals overhead on raised tracks and for a second, he misses his old neighborhood like a needle through the lung, and then it’s gone, and he’s still breathing.

The safest thing to do would be to stay here, in the city. It seems like the kind of place people get lost in easy. People like him. He can probably find some temporary housing, get himself set up with some kinda work. The money Mandy gave him (probably stole it from Terry, clever bitch) will last him for a little while. It’s not what he wants - he wants to go home, he wants to have a home to go back to, but tough shit. Better than going upstate to find out Rande really is the snitch he thinks she is. No one can escape Terry completely. God knows, Mickey has tried.

The departure time for his bus upstate comes and goes and he keeps walking, ignores Mandy’s texts to his phone - _did u make it? hows nyc? r u on the bus? did u text rande?_ He doesn’t know what to do, and he hates it, always wants to be on top of whatever’s happening. Wants to have a plan.

The sun begins to dip behind the buildings and the air grows colder. He feels like shit - how long has it been since he last ate? Fuck, he can’t even remember. Guess his body’s gotten used to doing without. He can’t help thinking stupid shit, like: Rande will have a couch. She’ll have a fridge full of food, probably. Or at least a couple frozen pizzas in the freezer. Fuck, he wants that so much.

It’s been fully dark for a while by the time he eventually stops because he doesn’t know where he is. The apartments are a lot nicer here than where he started out - he’ll need to turn around if he wants to find somewhere he can rough it one more night without any problems. That won’t be here, obviously The street has started coming alive with people, spilling out of brightly-lit bars and restaurants in their nice clothes, laughing and talking as they go.

It’s a Saturday night, Mickey realizes. This is what people do on Saturday nights.

In the three weeks since Terry walked in on him bent over the living-room couch getting pounded by Richie Westin, Mickey’s already kind of forgotten what it feels like not to be hunted. Or maybe he never knew. Maybe he’s been doing some version of this his whole life.

There’s a subway stop of ahead, and he stops to light a cigarette - his...fifth? sixth? The Brooklyn he thought he’d found during the day is not the same one he’s seeing now, full of exactly the kind of people he always tries to avoid. Better get out of here soon.

He leans against the railing and watches as the door to one of those fancy restaurants swings open and two men walk out. They’re young and drunk and talking over each other, telling the same story. Mickey isn’t sure what about them catches his interest. Maybe the way one of them slides his hand deep into the back pocket of the other guy’s jeans, the way he laughs and leans in. Mickey knows what’s going to happen before it does, and when they kiss he looks away before his traumatized dick can take an interest.

The couple pass him on the sidewalk, too wrapped up in each other to even notice he’s there. Mickey takes a drag of his cigarette and watches them go. The gay part of him that just won’t quit, no matter how often he tries to make it, goes _good goddamn, what I wouldn’t give for a piece of that._ But the rest of him - the part that talks sense - knows that it’s not any safer here, not for him. Not if he wants to be better, live better. Come home. He’s learned his lesson.

But he’s never felt further away from home than now, watching that couple recede into the night with a mixture of longing and disgust. For the first time in his life, he has exactly what he always wanted. He’s completely alone. No one knows him. No one cares. And for the first time, he doesn’t want to be.

So he checks his phone - three missed calls, two from Mandy, one from an unknown number. Rande, probably. A whole bunch of unanswered texts. He’s starting to think seriously about finding somewhere to sleep, something to eat. His phone is buzzing again with a call. Unknown number. A text. Unknown number. _Whre the fuck ar you mick sister said yud be here by now???_

Rande’s the worst texter he’s ever met. Well, not met. Not yet. And fuck, when did he start actually considering going upstate to meet her?

_I dnt hva ime to deal w yur bs tell me if yor comin or no_

Mickey hesitates for a long time, almost a minute. Finishes his cigarette, grinds it under his heel. And then he answers: _coming_

The subway station is all dirty tiles and flickering lights, with a few homeless people sitting on their boxes on the ground, slumped into themselves in the warm, humid air that rises from the tunnels. He peers at the map, which makes no sense - all those convoluted colored lines - and tries to figure out where the Port Authority bus station is and how to get there from here.

His reflection in the Plexiglas stares back at him. He looks as shitty as he feels. He can’t keep going like this. It needs to stop.

He texts Rande again from the dingy Port Authority waiting area, right before boarding the last bus of the evening, and doesn’t make any apologies. She doesn’t ask any questions, either, just texts him back: _ok_. It feels like an awful concession, like he’s giving in to something that’s going to screw him over in the long run, but this is it. His last option.

He’s wide-awake for the almost three hours it takes to get upstate. He can’t see anything outside the windows, except for the occasional scattered lights of small towns, until they pull into the tiny open-air bus depot. The few people waiting by the benches look sick and washed-out in the florescent lights.

It’s a lot colder up here, compared to New York City. Compared to Chicago, even. Mickey climbs off the bus with the rest of the passengers and lights another cigarette. His breath comes out almost thicker than the smoke.

Mickey has no idea what Aunt Rande looks like, so he waits, smoking, until everyone has left except for him, the bus driver, and an older woman sitting on a bench, also smoking, and wearing a winter coat and a pair of sweatpants tucked sloppily into her boots. Process of elimination.

He approaches her and pushes back his hood to reveal his face, “Hey, are you -”

Something about his appearance or voice must give him away, because she smirks and says in a deep fucked-up smoker’s voice, “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Terry Milkovich’s youngest son. It’s been a while, kid.”

Mickey doesn’t like being called that, _kid,_ but Aunt Rande just laughs at him when he scowls, saying, “Last time I saw you, you came up to here,” She indicates a point just above her knee, “And Mandy was still a baby who cried all the time. Your mother could not get that girl to shut up.”

“Not anymore,” He says, annoyance covering his confusion - he didn’t know he’d ever met her, even as a kid. He wonders, just a little, what she did to get kicked out of the family like that.

“Get in the truck,” She says, heaving herself up off the bench and pointing her cane in the direction of the parking lot, “You’re driving.”

“Why the fuck should I drive? It’s not like I know where we’re going,” He says, and she levels him with such a look - it’s like Mandy but _more_ \- that he feels the complaint dry up in his mouth.

“‘Cause I’m a fucking cripple. Now come on,” She snaps, and leads him slowly to the truck, leaning heavily on her cane.

He sneaks glances at her as they walk, trying to see the family resemblance. She has frizzy blond hair, slightly darker at the roots, and a face like fifty miles of bad road. She looks a little like Terry, especially around the nose and jaw, but one half of her face droops slightly, and it’s just enough to break the association.

Once they’re in the rusted-out silver truck and Mickey has adjusted the seat - he doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve it, but he’s shorter than her, too - she tells him, “You smell like shit, kid. When was the last time you took a shower?”

He has to think about it, which isn’t a good sign, even by his own low standards, “About a month, I guess.”

“Well, damn. We gotta change that.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. No shit.

He hasn’t driven in a while, and the truck is stick shift, which sucks - but with Aunt Rande barking instructions from the passenger seat he successfully backs out of the lot and pulls out onto the street, only stalling out a couple times.

They drive for a while on a highway, dark with trees on either side, the moon occasionally flashing into view through them. Then off the highway and up a series of twisting narrow roads, dotted with the occasional house, into the mountains, and then down again, slightly, into a valley. He thinks it’s a valley.

“We’re almost there,” Rande says, although how she knows that without any obvious visual cues is a mystery to him, “Just gotta get past Ellenville. There’s a prison on the other side of town, you can see the lights from here -” He can, kind of. A haze in the distance “I used to work in the mailroom there ‘til my MS got too bad.”

He can’t follow the non sequitur, so he asks, “What town?”

“This one,” She says. They round a curve in the road, trees thinning out into fields, and, well. There it is.

It would look like a ghost town if the streetlights weren’t on, bathing empty storefronts and overgrown sidewalks in orange light. Just before the main intersection, there’s a run-down little motel and a diner across the street, lights still on, a couple cars parked ou front. The intersection itself has two gas stations (why?) and a taxidermy shop. Rande tells him to turn right at the light, which takes its sweet time switching between red and green even though Rande’s truck is the only vehicle on the road, and then the town falls away behind them.

The road narrows to one lane after that, and Mickey finds himself driving like an old man, leaning forward to get a better view out the bug-splattered windshield. They wind up another goddamn mountain, and then down again ever so slightly, all hair-pin turns following the dark depression of a stream. The trees are thick on either side, their trunks silvery as they catch the headlights. There are no houses, no signs of life, and Mickey feels weird, empty almost, like he’s not really here. Like he left a part of himself back in Chicago and is only realizing it now.

“Watch out for deer,” She tells him, all casual, “They like to jump out at you as you’re driving.”

“Fucking seriously?” He asks, but he slows way, way down. There are _deer_ here _,_ what the fuck. He’s never been in a place with actual wildlife before, never left the city of Chicago and its suburbs until now. It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask about bear, but he doesn’t want to come across as a coward.

The night has turned by the time she has him pull into the short driveway of her brown and white trailer. A pale grey sky is visible through the dark overhanging trees. He thinks he hears the rush of water somewhere nearby as he gets out, but he can’t really see where it’s coming from.

There’s a sagging shed and several rusted out cars cluttering the dirt yard, and a paved path going up to the screen door. Mickey spots an old white house a couple hundred feet up the road from them - kind of glowing, almost, in the pre-dawn light - and then Rande is pushing open the unlocked door of her trailer and ushering him inside.

They eat scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast (dinner?), sitting crowded together at the two-seater table in the kitchenette. It’s very 70’s inside, all linoleum and stained orange carpet and brown faux-wood paneling on the walls. They eat in silence, too focused on chewing. Mickey’s done in like thirty seconds, and stands up to make himself more.

“Hungry?” Rande asks, amused.

“What do you fucking think?” He cracks the eggs into the pan on the hotplate and tries to remember the way Mande does it, how fast she stirs.

Once they’re done eating, Rande pulls out several pills from an organizer hidden in the pile of junk at the center of the table and tells him, “Go get me a beer from the fridge, I got something I need to talk to you about.”

He pulls out a can of Bud and places it in front of her, afraid suddenly of her silence up until now, what it could mean. If this is going to be some kind of confrontation about the reason why he’s here, he’s not ready.

“Sit down, asshole. Don’t be rude,” She says, and he sits, “Now you’re here, I got two rules. If you can’t follow them, you’re out.” She waits for him to nod before continuing, “First rule is you help me with whatever needs doing - cooking, cleaning, driving. I’m not your mother, I’m not gonna take care of you, so you gotta carry your own weight. Otherwise I don’t care what you do. If you want to make money selling drugs or guns or stealing from people’s houses, _I don’t care_. But the minute you bring that shit under my roof, you’re out, you got me? I’m living a good clean life here. I don’t need you fucking it up for me.”

“Is that the second rule?” Mickey sneers, because he hates rules on principle, even reasonable ones.

“Sure is.”

He bites his bottom lip, a sharp sting. He’s certain he’ll live to regret this, but he sticks out his hand for Aunt Rande to shake.

“It’s a deal,” He says. At least he’ll live.

Rande washes down her morning pills with a swig of beer and shuffles off to her bedroom, yelling back that he can sleep on the couch, there should be a spare set of linens in the bathroom. Then she closes her door, and Mickey is alone in the combination living-room/kitchen, the smell of dust and slightly burnt eggs hanging in the air.

His exhaustion catches up with him all of a sudden, and he barely manages to grab a blanket and pillow from the closet before going to lie down on the couch, fully clothed in jeans and a sweater. He slides his Walther P99 under the lumpy pillow, loaded but with the safety on, just in case. Outside the windows, the sky keeps brightening, relentless, and the silence breaks into hundreds of birds singing their goddamn hearts out. It’s weird to hear so much - the wind in the trees, the stream, the birds - without also hearing the sounds of human life all around him. It’s lonely. But then he’s asleep, and doesn’t feel that way anymore.

If he feels significantly more human when he wakes up that afternoon, it’s nothing compared to when he climbs into Rande’s slightly mildewy shower and washes off the filth and grime and old crust of dry blood. The water runs dark at first, then eventually clear, and the heat and the steady water-pressure feel so good that he wants to stay in forever. He washes his dick, thinks absently about ditching the washcloth and jerking off, his first time in too many weeks, but then he’s hit with a sick wave of revulsion, so he drops his dick and shuts off the water, climbs out onto the dirty bathmat. 

When he emerges from the bathroom, Rande is up, drinking a cup of coffee at the kitchen table. She sees him, clean-shaven with his hair slicked back, wearing a fresh change of clothes, and whistles.

“Now that’s more like it. You want some coffee?” She asks, and he joins her at the table gladly.

It’s a slow day. He clears his blankets off the couch eventually, and they watch TV together, first the local weather and news, then Wheel of Fortune. It all seems so normal, just chilling on the busted-up couch on an autumn afternoon, and he has to keep reminding himself that everything is wrong, that he shouldn’t have to be here at all. He wonders when Rande will confront him about it, but she doesn’t.

She doesn’t say a goddamn thing about it at all.

On his second or third day, Rande starts hassling about getting a job. She tells him her disability stipend barely covers bills, much less any extra expenses like groceries and gas, tells him she doesn’t want him to end up like his deadbeat father, which is bullshit - Terry is the definition of a man at the top of his game _,_ at least compared to some pussy like Frank Gallagher.

Once Mickey makes it clear he isn’t looking for lawful employment, Rande drops the issue, and now they just spend their days on the couch, drinking beer and watching Vanna White spin, spin, spin. It’s not a bad life. He’s got a lot of bad thoughts crowding his head, but right now, he’s fine. Everything is fine. It’s weird how anti-climactic that feels.

She seems pretty sick - dizzy a lot and very tired, stays in bed or on the couch the most days, says her Multiple Sclerosis is getting worse. Mickey believes it. The downside, at least for him, is that she makes him do the cooking, which means they burn through their supply of frozen TV dinners real quick. She has a microwave, thank fuck, but there’s only so many times he can eat pre-cooked meatloaf and mashed potatoes. It throws him for a while, that he could get so used to something like _real hot food_ again that the repetition starts to get on his nerves, but it’s probably good, a sign that life is getting back to normal like nothing happened.  

Still, Mickey thinks Mandy should have at least warned him that he’d be Aunt Rande’s bitch for as long as he lives here.

He wakes up one morning on his fourth or fifth day there from an incredibly vivid dream of running out of the warehouse, or rather trying to, getting lost in the labyrinth of collapsed walls and storage rooms and old machinery - hearing Terry’s footsteps behind him, his harsh breaths, gunshots ringing out in the cavernous space. Mickey jolts awake wild with panic, reaching for the gun under his pillow - and then realizes where he is, the dirty dishes from last night stacked on top of the dusty TV, the ugly shag carpeting and sags back into the couch, trying to calm his breathing.

There’s a sound from the other end of the living room and he sees Rande leaning against the doorway of her bedroom, looking at him.

“What do you want?” He demands, voice scratchy with sleep, and she just shrugs.

“I got a shotgun and a .22 in a rack by the door if you wanna keep that gun under your pillow somewhere a little safer.”

He’s embarrassed she saw that, knows that about him, but he plays it off, scoffing “Yeah, no way. Safer is the point of keeping it with me.”

She gives him a judgmental look, then shuffles off to make coffee without saying anything else. He joins her when he’s ready, but the feeling of the dream doesn’t leave him. He can’t seem to calm down, restless and jumpy as he tries to sit still, zoning out in front of the TV. He shouldn’t have come here to live with Terry’s goddamn sister if he wanted to get out from under Terry’s shadow. It was a He can’t stop seeing similarities between them. Little things, mostly. The way she moves, inflections of in her voice when she curses him out.

It’s like Terry’s there, in his head and in Rande’s too, and it makes him itch.

The air in the trailer is dusty and thick with stale cigarette smoke, and Rande doesn’t like to turn the lights on unless she has to so it’s dim inside, too. Mickey wouldn’t normally mind - he knows a thing or two about squalor, and this ain’t even close - but he’s already so on-edge that he can’t stand spending another evening cooped up in this goddamn house.

Mickey waits until Rande is dozing in front of the TV before he grabs two cans of Bud and his longest fixed-blade knife, and heads out the door. The road is empty, and besides a few fucking chipmunks or squirrels or whatever scurrying around, there’s no sign of life anywhere - not even from the run-down white farmhouse just visible through the trees around the bend. He walks in the opposite direction until the road dips down and both the white house and Rande’s trailer are out of sight.

At the bottom of the hill, Mickey sees an overgrown trail branching off from the road, blocked off by a fraying steel cable tied between two posts. A faded POSTED sign hangs from it, swaying lightly in the breeze. It kind of looks like an abandoned driveway, curving around the edge of a small pond and disappearing back into the trees. Mickey steps over the cable and follows the muddy track until it comes close to the edge of the pond, then stops and sits on the trunk of a fallen tree. Dead leaves float on the still, dark surface of the water below him, pushed slightly by the wind.

The road is visible from his vantage point, but it doesn’t matter. He’s seen two, maybe three cars drive past since he arrived - it is clearly not a superhighway - and anyway, he’s used to the background hum of people going about their lives while he goes about his. Without it, he’s feeling kind of lost. This is the most truly isolated he’s ever been, not just in feeling but in fact, except for that one time he got sent to solitary while he was in juvie. But that was only for 48 hours. This is different. This is total, all-consuming. There’s no one out here in a ten, maybe fifteen mile radius besides him, and Rande, and whoever lives in the run-down white house.

He hoped getting out of the house would help, but the eerie silence makes the thoughts in his head so much louder, and he can’t fucking stand it, needs something to take them away.

He cracks open a beer and drinks it all in one go, wincing at the cold rush. He shouldn’t have taken one from the fridge, but he wasn’t expecting it to be the same exact temperature as the air. Fucking winter or fall or whatever this is. He drains the can, he tosses it over his shoulder into the woods, and takes the knife out of his jacket pocket.

It’s been his favorite ever since he found it almost two years ago in the house of some people who owed Terry money. He passes it from one hand to the other, testing its weight. The balance feels right in his hand, like it was made for him, and he briefly remembers the satisfaction of driving it through the bones of some asshole’s palm who tried to mess with Mandy. Remembers the guy sobbing with shock, blood everywhere, and Mickey snarling _don’t you lay another hand on my sister or next time I’ll cut it off_ \- but he doesn’t want to think about that right now.

Mickey stands and takes aim for a tree a few yard away, focusing on the smooth bark where he wants the knife to go. He hasn’t done this in a while, doesn’t want to fuck it up, although who cares if he does? There’s no one watching. He pulls his arm back and throws straight. Not bad. The blade is embedded almost an inch. It didn’t end up exactly where he’d aimed, but he could definitely take a man down if he had to. Or a bear or wolf or whatever other bullshit wildlife is out here. He opens the second beer, downs it, and throws again. And again. Next time he’ll bring his gun out, now that he’s found a good spot.  

After a while, he realizes someone is approaching from the other direction, through the trees, their footsteps crunching through the dead leaves. Mickey very purposefully doesn’t look their way, just keeps throwing his knife and retrieving it. He’s finally got a rhythm going, making more throws than he misses, and he doesn’t want some asswipe to disturb it, or him.

Whoever it is stops a few feet away from him, and Mickey’s fucking burning with the urge to look over and see who it is, if it’s some crazy old survivalist guy ready to shoot him for trespassing, although he figures if that was going to happen, it would’ve happened already.

He’s concentrating so hard on not-looking that he fumbles his next throw, and when he bends to pick up his knife, he can’t help but notice that it isn’t an old guy at all. Instead, it’s some ginger about his age, red hair contrasting against his dark blue jacket and the grey forest behind him. The guy is smoking a cigarette and watching Mickey through the curling smoke like they’re old friends or some shit. Like Mickey fucking invited him here.

“The fuck are you looking at?” Mickey snaps, chafing under the attention.

“Nice knife. Can I see it?” The kid answers, holding his hand out like he expects Mickey to just hand it over. Mickey doesn’t, he’s not an _idiot_ , but the guy doesn’t seem put-out or anything, just smiles again, easy-going, “What is it, a Recon Scout?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says reluctantly.

“Cool. I used to have one too, until I - until my sister declared our house a no-weapons zone,” He pauses, waiting for Mickey to say something. When Mickey doesn’t, he continues, “I’m Ian, by the way. Ian Gallagher. I live down the road.”

Mickey grunts in acknowledgement. The name rings a bell, but that’s probably just because Rande mentioned the neighbors at some point on the drive up, even though Mickey can’t remember the exact details.

“And you are...?” Ian prompts, on a fast-track towards seriously getting on Mickey’s nerves. Mickey is really fucking tempted to not answer. He doesn’t want anyone knowing him here. His name or anything else. All roads eventually lead back to Terry, back to gunshots out his bedroom window and running for his life.

“C’mon man, give me something to work with here,” Ian’s tone is teasing now, like a guy trying to get a name out of a girl at a bar, “I’m just trying to be friendly.”

“Well, you can fuck right off with that,” Mickey says, “I didn’t come out here to make friends.”

Ian shrugs, apparently incapable of taking a hint, “Me neither. But here we are.”

In the silence that follows, Mickey looks down at the knife and runs his finger along the blade’s sharp edge. It’s a little duller than when he started but it can still draw blood if he presses hard. He should make this whole thing easier and leave first, but he’s always hated backing down if he has the option not to.

“You’re Rande’s nephew, right?” Ian asks, out of nowhere, and Mickey tenses, adjusts his grip on the knife.

“How the fuck do you know that?” He demands.

“Hey, hey, chill,” Ian raises his hands, all don’t-shoot, and takes a step backwards, “My sister and your aunt are friends, they talk. News travels fast.”

That’s exactly what Mickey’s afraid of. But he does loosen his grip on the knife, even though he can’t slow his breathing down. He could definitely take Ian in a fight, if it comes to that, but he suspects Ian is pretty built under his jacket - those broad shoulders - and it might be more trouble than it’s worth.

“Rande never mentioned having any family until now. Where’d you used to live? ” Ian asks, deliberately casual, looking right at Mickey. Mickey meets his eyes, glaring hard. He doesn’t know why Ian thinks it will work - it’s the questions that are the problem, not the way they’re asked.

Mickey and walks closer, “You better stop it with the fucking questions if you know what’s good for you, Gallagher.”

“Or what?” Ian asks, lifting his chin slightly even though Mickey is obviously shorter than him and feeling every inch of that difference.

“Or I kick your ass and throw you into the fucking pond. Now leave me the fuck alone,” He flips the knife in his hand, sharp edges flashing, “I’m not joking around here.”

“Jesus,” Ian shakes his head, but there’s a line at the corner of his mouth like he’s amused, and it makes Mickey want to hit him. What the hell is wrong with this kid that he thinks goading the strange guy in the woods holding a knife is a good idea?

“You looking for an ass-kicking, Red? ‘Cause it kinda looks like you are,” Mickey takes the last few steps until he’s right in Ian’s face, staring him right in the eyes. Green, he thinks. 

“Maybe I am,” Ian says, and gives him a challenging look in return - chin out, determined - and that’s the absolute last fucking straw. 

 He drops the knife, for the sake of fair play, and punches Ian in the gut. Ian hunches over, gasping for breath, and tackles Mickey to the ground. Mickey’s head knocks against a rock buried in the leaves and it’s a sharp, almost ecstatic pain - too pure and perfect to really hurt. This is the fight that’s been in his system since he left Chicago, this is the best and only thing in the world.

And what’s better - what’s best - is that Ian is right there with him the whole time, landing a few punches that Mickey knows will bruise down to the bone, strong just like Mickey knew he was. Mickey’s got a lot of anger to work off, but it kind of seems like Ian does too, and it’s hard to tell who’s winning. Maybe they both are.

They fight for a solid ten minutes or so, until all of a sudden it ends. Mickey is straddling Ian’s waist, pinning Ian’s hands down, grinding them into the damp earth, both of them breathing hard. Mickey’s knuckles have split and Ian is grinning through a mouthful of blood, saying, “Fuck, that was good.”

It was. It was so good. Mickey shakes his hand out. It will be swollen tonight, a reminder. When he jerks off, it will hurt and he’ll think of this - of Ian beneath him.

Mickey scrambles off Ian’s prone body, arousal gathering warm and low in his belly. Ian follows him up, but more slowly. He stretches, still grinning. He’s got dead leaves in his hair and he looks ridiculous.

“I’m Mickey,” He says suddenly, on an impulse he already kind of regrets, and Ian’s smile widens, which he didn’t even think was possible.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mickey,” Ian says, and waves jauntily as he turns to go, “See you around!”

Mickey waits until Ian is safely out of sight before sitting down heavily on the fallen tree, head between his knees, breathing hard as he waits for his dick to soften up again. He’d punch something to get his mind off it, but the pain would only make him think about Ian, and he’s not - he’s not he’s not he’s _not_ going to jack off about this.

Mickey decides he’s not going to think about it, which is easier said than done, because the moment he walks into the trailer afterwards, Rande raises an eyebrow, looking faintly amused, and says, “Antiseptic is in the bathroom if you need it.”

But then over dinner she asks if he’s met the Gallagher boy yet, and Mickey kinda chokes as he’s swallowing his microwaved chili.

He shakes his head, “I ain’t met anyone, and I don’t want to, either.”

Rande sighs, rolls her eyes. She has permanent eyeliner tattooed on her eyelids, and it’s kinda freaking him out a little, imagining a needle getting that close to someone’s eye, “That’s a real healthy attitude to have.”

“What attitude? I’m just doing what everyone told me to do - I’m hiding out and keeping my head down, okay? What more do you want from me, some fucking meet-the-neighbors tea party?”

“No, I just want you to get it through your thick skull that this doesn’t have to be the end of your fucking life, okay, kid?”

The _kid_ and the pity piss him off. The whole thing is pissing him off, really, so he dumps his bowl in the sink and walks out the door, letting it slam closed behind him.

“You’re acting like a child!” Rande yells after him, but he ignores her.

So what if he is? It’s his life.

After that, he tries to avoid Aunt Rande as much as he can, but, once again. Easier said than done. It makes him miss Chicago, where there were more options for places to go other than _forest_ and _indoors._ Her trailer is just so small, and he’s not - never has been - an outdoors kind of person. Plus, now he has responsibilities or some shit, like cooking and taking Rande to pick up her prescriptions at the Shop-Rite pharmacy.

And buying eggs.

The problem is basically that Rande’s too laid-up on the couch to get more, and eggs are their main food source besides TV dinners. Mickey’s anticipating a trip to the grocery store, or basically anything to get the hell out of the wilderness for an hour or two, but Rande puts an end to that when she tells him to go next door and buy eggs there.

“What, seriously?” Mickey asks, “They runnin some kinda farm or something? How do you know their eggs are gonna be clean or, uh - safe or whatever?" 

“Quit your bitching and get me a dozen eggs,” Rande says, “You’ve been eating them this whole time and never even noticed.”

It takes just over one minute to walk down the road to the white house - Ian’s house. And he has to admit, he’s been a little curious to see it up close without all those trees in the way. Not because of Ian, though. Just because.

The front of the house faces away from the road, porch in the opposite direction of Rande’s trailer, overhung with more of those tall, dark evergreen trees. Moss is growing above the stone foundation, shading the white wooden slats green, and the ground is soft with fallen needles. The porch and all the windows are covered in plastic sheeting which flaps slightly in the cold breeze, and the yard is completely overgrown with dead weeds and filled with plastic kid’s toys, a beat-up old couch, and a bathtub, maybe. He thinks.

It reminds him so much of his house in Chicago when he and Mandy were growing up - and their mother was still alive - that he almost stops and turns around, nostalgia twisting his guts. But he makes it to the front door anyway, and knocks.

There’s an explosion of noise inside, and the door swings open. A middle-school kid stares back at him, unimpressed until he zeroes in on Mickey’s finger tats, quickly joined by a woman with brown hair in a messy ponytail. Her eyes widen when she sees him, then narrow again.

“What do you want?” She demands, hand on her hip. Behind her, he can see into the grungy kitchen where a much younger kid sits in one of the chairs, taking advantage of the woman’s absence to mash his food all together on his plate.

“Heard you guys sell eggs,” He says, feeling like he’s making the weirdest drug deal of his life.

The woman neither confirms nor denies, looking at him so suspiciously his skin starts to itch. He scratches the back of his neck, glancing around. Has he missed something, is this even the right place?

“I’m, uh. Rande sent me,” He says, and something in her face changes. Doesn’t soften, just makes a decision, maybe.

She turns to yell, “Debs! You got a customer!” And hustles the kid out of the doorway, “Carl, it’s rude to stare. Go find your sister.”

Too late, though. The sister is already thundering down the stairs, bright red hair in a long braid down her back. For a second there, Mickey was doubting whether Ian could really be related to these people at all, but now he’s convinced.

“Hi, I’m Debbie,” The girl says, and pushes past her brother and her sister? mother? out onto the porch, “You here for some eggs?”

“Yeah.”

Before they can go wherever it is that Debbie sells her eggs - and seriously, how is this easier than just driving to a fucking grocery store? - Mickey hears a familiar voice in the background saying, “Yo, Carl, who’s at the door?”

And there’s Ian. Of course.

“I dunno,” Carl says, shrugging, as Ian comes into view from somewhere inside the house, joining the crowd by the door.

“Oh, hey, Mickey,” Ian says cheerfully. He’s got an impressive scab left over from their fight, and his bottom lip is still pretty swollen from Mickey’s fist, which is to say he looks _good_ \- smiling at Mickey like they’ve got a secret.

“You know him?” The woman asks, eyes flashing as she looks between Mickey’s busted knuckles and Ian’s lip, clearly putting the pieces together.

“We’ve met,” Ian says evasively, and ducks past her, “C’mon Debs, let’s show him the coop.”

So it turns out they’re not running a farm so much as Debbie has a very lucrative collection of chickens in a shed behind the house. She and Ian take turns telling Mickey - not that he cares - how the egg business came to be, from its illustrious beginnings as a 4H club project, to the present day, with Debbie trying to extort five fucking dollars out of Mickey for a single carton of eggs while Ian laughs his ass off.

“No way, kid,” Mickey says, feeling around in his jacket pocket for the two bucks Rande gave him, “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

She’s a good negotiator though, gets him up to $3, and he has to dig through his pockets to make up the difference in loose change.

While she’s getting him the eggs, he asks Ian, “What’s up with your mother? She always that unfriendly?”

“Nah, man, Fiona’s not my mother,” Ian laughs, and kneels down to pet one of the brown chickens scratching in the dirt outside the coop, “She’s my sister. Don’t mind her, she’s just very protective.”

Mickey snorts, “Whatever.”

He’s trying not to think too hard about it, but the name Fiona is kind of ringing a bell too. Or maybe it’s just something about her - the way she talks. He thinks back to when he was on the porch surrounded by Gallaghers, and - wait. By Gallaghers. By fucking _Gallaghers_.

Frank’s missing children.

It’s like all the air has suddenly frozen in his lungs. Ian keeps talking but Mickey isn’t listening. He accepts the carton of eggs Debbie thrusts into his hands, and cuts Ian off mid-sentence, “I, uh - I gotta go.”

“See you around sometime?” Ian asks, but Mickey ignores him in favor of getting the fuck out of there. His shock is fading and he’s furious, at Rande, at Mandy, at the whole fucking universe for making him think he could get a fresh start and then putting him right back in the same South Side shit he was trying to leave behind.

He storms back into the trailer, completely prepared to pack up his shit and get the hell out of dodge, again. He’s barely unpacked since he got here - once he shoves the small pile of dirty clothes on the floor by the couch where he’s been sleeping into his backpack, he’ll be ready to go.

All the noise gets Rande out of bed, and she stands in the doorway to her room, asking him, “What the hell are you doing? Where the hell are you going?”

“You fucking lied!” Mickey yells. He’s got his backpack open on the couch, the carton of eggs discarded off to the side, “You told Mandy it was _safe_ here, you said I could come here and no one would find me and you fucking lied.”

“Has Terry contacted you?” Rande asks, and there’s a steely note in her hoarse voice, “Did he say he knows where you are?”

“No,” Mickey zips up the bag, “But he will - it’s only a matter of time. You live next door to the fucking _Gallaghers_ \- you think Frank isn’t gonna run his mouth back in Chicago once they tell him?  You really think Terry isn’t gonna find out?”

Rande laughs, and it sets Mickey so on edge he has to forcibly stop himself from reaching for his knife.

“What the fuck are you laughing at? Is this fucking funny to you?”

“Get your head out of your ass,” She says, and takes a few steps into the living room, leaning heavily on her cane, “You’re not the only person trying to get out of a bad situation. The Gallaghers want their father finding them about as much as you want Terry showing up here.”

Mickey just glares at her and doesn’t say anything back. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s wavering. This is turning out all wrong. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone from his old life here, besides Rande. He was supposed to be safe.

“Look, do whatever the hell you want,” Rande says, “I’m just saying - you got nothing to worry about from me or the Gallaghers. We all have our different reasons for leaving Chicago, but none of us want to go back.” 

“Oh yeah, why did _you_ leave?” Mickey asks. It’s meant to be a challenge, but he realizes the question has been burning in him for a while.

For a moment, he doesn’t think Rande will answer. She looks so tired and worn-out, but then her lips twist in a smile, and she says, “You’re not the first gay Milkovich, you know. You ain’t gonna be the last.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Mickey asks. He feels - uncertain. Confused. None of this is making sense.

“Exactly what I said. Now go get me a glass of water, asshole. I gotta take a pill.”

He’s still holding onto his backpack but his anger is fading, and he doesn’t want to run anymore. He’s so fucking sick and tired of it. Rande makes an impatient gesture to the kitchen sink and Mickey holds out a moment longer - _should I stay or should I go,_ that stupid song, why’s he remembering it now - and then he turns, walks to the sink, fills the glass, and hands it to her. He stays.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> content warning in the end notes

Ian hasn’t seen Mickey in almost three weeks, which is weird at first, and then insulting, and then kind of impressive, because he _knows_ Mickey knows where he lives. In a town this small - not even a town at all, just two houses and a whole lot of trees - it’s hard to avoid someone for this long unless you really, really want to.

And yeah, maybe he thought they had some kind of connection, some kind of electric _something,_ and maybe he was hoping Mickey would come by again, but Mickey hasn’t and Ian has plenty to worry about without adding him to the list.

For instance, Calculus is kicking his ass this year. It kicked his ass last year too, before he got pulled from school. For the first month of this semester he did pretty well, going on distant, hazy memories of when he'd taken the class before, but now his memories have run out and he’s back to his usual routine of being lost and confused and on the verge of failing. He could call Lip for help, but then he’d have to listen to Lip talk, and it’s been kinda nice not having his brother around all the time bugging him about doing his homework and taking his pills.

Ian leans forward, to the foot of his bed, and lifts up the corner of the plastic sheeting stapled to the window-frame. Outside the window, there’s a thick fog gathering in the trees - last week’s warmer weather turning cold. He can feel the chill radiating through the glass. 

His calc textbook is open on the bed in front of him and his notebook is off to the side, filled with half-completed practice problems. This is where he likes to do his homework - away from the noise and chaos of the rest of the house. It gets to be a little too much, sometimes, all the people, and the way they still haven’t gotten back to treating him the way they used to.

It makes him say things he doesn’t mean. Makes him pick fights with Fiona, half-convinced she’s the one picking fights first. She probably is. Some days they can’t get through a single conversation without it devolving into something biting and mean.

Fuck finishing the rest of these problems. Ian doesn’t close the book, just pushes it away and then rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. Downstairs, Debbie and Carl are arguing about something, their voices loud but indistinct. Any minute now, one of them is going to come storming up here, slamming doors and demanding he pick a side.

Before they do, Ian reaches out blindly for his phone, buried somewhere in the folds of his quilt, and hits up one of the guys from school (another super senior, like him) for some weed. He’s out, and he needs to get more if he plans on making it to the end of this day without losing his shit.

Dylan texts him back almost immediately -  _no im out but u could try Jay i know hes good rn -_ just as Carl poounds his way up the stairs and barges into the room. 

Ian drags his eyes up from the screen, although he doesn’t technically need to. Carl will keep ranting with or without audience participation, but Ian’s been trying to be a better sibling lately, so he listens anyway. Ian still isn’t totally sure what the argument was about - something about one of Debbie’s friends at school? Or maybe how Debbie hogs the bathroom every morning straightening her hair? It feels like a really long time since Ian was that age.

Another set of footsteps make the stairs groan and the pots and pans rattle in the kitchen downstairs, and there’s Fiona, come to yell at Carl about respecting his sister. Ian sits up quickly and pretends to go back to his homework, but that isn’t enough to get her to not do her yelling in the room. By the time she’s finished, Ian’s got a headache, the kind where everything sounds jangly and too-loud in his ears. He wishes they would all just leave, and leave him alone.

He thinks if he wasn’t medicated, he’d be pretty down right now. Not catatonic, just down. It’s hard to tell sometimes, with the meds, but he likes to think he’s getting better at interpreting his vague, shifting moods.

Dylan texts him again with good news.

_i found a new guy hes got good stuff if u wanna hit him up_

_what kind of stuff?_ Ian replies.

 _ask him urself_ , Dylan writes, and forwards him a contact number.

Ian’s grateful for it. He’s not in the mood to deal with Jay, who’s honestly kind of an asshole and won't stop making gay jokes. So Ian texts the new number right away, asking what the guy’s deal is - what kind of weed he’s got, how much it costs, if he can meet Ian at the house. He gets back:  _dont do house calls for less than a quarter_

Ian laughs. What a jerk.

_well i don’t have that kind of money rn but i can toss u a few bucks for gas?_

There’s a pause, and then: _whats the address?_

He types it out and doesn’t hear back for a long time. So long that he kind of forgets about the whole thing and goes down to eat dinner (SpaghettiO's, again...) with everyone. Debbie is a little worried about one of her chickens - the splotchy grey and black one hasn’t been laying eggs for a while, apparently - and Carl’s joke that they kill and eat it doesn’t go down well. Fiona tries to mediate, but then she gets a call from a co-worker halfway through, which leaves Ian to play peacemaker, again, listening to them bicker until he can’t fucking stand it anymore and has to leave the table.

The door slams shut behind him as he steps out onto the porch. It’s cold tonight and he stuffs his hands in his pockets. Probably should have taken his jacket, but oh well. He’s not a fan of winter - the short days, frigid weather. It does bad things to his head, makes him feel like the world is closing in on him. All he can do is hope one day this will all be just a bad dream, something in the past he doesn’t have to think about anymore.

He needs to get out of here. If Fiona didn’t care so goddamn much about him finishing high school, he would be gone already. Down to the city, or back to Chicago. No, not Chicago. He could get a sublet in Brooklyn or Queens, though. A couple roommates, a job at a coffee shop, and unlimited sex without any of the upstate gay panic bullshit. No one to tell him what to do and when to do it.

Ian lights a cigarette and walks down the path a little. Out of habit, he turns towards Rande’s trailer. It’s the only spot of light along the road and he likes to think about Rande in there, living her weird quiet life. Now he thinks about Mickey too, wondering where he is, what he’s doing. Probably the exact same thing Rande is - drinking beer and watching television, with an added side of pretending Ian doesn't exist.

Shit like this makes Ian start to doubt his instincts. Mickey was turned on, he thinks. He’s pretty sure. Hell, Ian was turned on too. It’s still a novelty, being able to get his dick hard whenever he wants - having his body do what it’s supposed to. Having his head do what it’s supposed to. Sometimes. But he likes how direct Mickey was, all up in his face and then crashing into him - trusting him to take the hit.

It takes a while, but eventually Ian notices movement coming from down the road. At first he thinks it’s a bear, which sets his brain in high-alert mode, but it’s not really the season, and then Mickey appears in the dull yellow glow of the porch light, face set in a frown.

“Hey, about time you showed up,” Ian says, and he’s smiling, can’t help himself, “I was starting to think you forgot where I lived.”

“Yeah, well,” Mickey shrugs. He’s wearing the same exact outfit he had on the first two times Ian met him, faded jeans and a dirty army-green jacket, “How the hell did you get my number?”

“What?” It takes Ian a moment to figure out what Mickey means, and then he laughs, “Oh wait - you’re - I had no idea it was you. Seriously. A friend gave me the number. He knew I was looking to buy. Sweet coincidence though, right?”

Mickey does not appear to agree.

“Where’s my twenty bucks?” He asks instead, holding out his hand, fingers twitching impatiently. Ian is a little embarrassed that he didn’t bring the money out with him onto the porch, even though there’s no way he could have known Mickey was his new dealer.

“Hang on, lemme go get it,” Ian says, turning to the door. He pauses, hand on the doorknob, imagining taking Mickey up to his room, “You want to come in?”

Mickey shakes his head tightly, “I’m good here.”

Ian runs upstairs and grabs his money from the envelope, then looks at himself in the mirror on the wall above his dresser. His hair is kind of a mess, curling slightly at the ends from the fog, and he looks the wrong side of rested - _over_ -rested, if such a thing exists. It’s been a fight to get up in the mornings lately. This week especially. 

Downstairs, Fiona is clearing dishes from the table. She asks him who he’s been talking to - she thought she heard voices outside - and Ian tells her it’s Rande’s nephew Mickey. He doesn’t have anything to hide. She gets this look on her face when she hears the name, though, like she disapproves, even though she literally only met him that one time when he came to buy eggs. Whatever. Ian isn't going to let her ruin anything. 

Most of the weed dealers around here don’t know shit about their product, but Mickey seems to know what he’s talking about, at least enough to say no when Ian asks if he can get Ian’s favorite strain.

“We’re not in fuckin Colorado, man. I can’t just get whatever you want,” Mickey snaps, and that bright thing that sparked in Ian’s chest when Mickey hit him flares up again.

“And you call yourself a professional,” He jokes, and watches as it pisses Mickey off even more.

“Whatever. I’m going back.”

“Hey, wait -” Ian says, reaching out to touch his arm before reconsidering. Mickey looks wound tight enough to snap if he does that, “I can roll us a joint. You want to go back to the pond, smoke a little?”

Mickey gives him a long, searching look, and thumbs unconsciously at his lip.

“Yeah,” Mickey says, grudgingly, “Sure.”

“Awesome. You got any rolling papers on you? I have some upstairs, but I figure you -”

“I got ‘em,” Mickey interrupts.

Ian takes him the usual way, down the old driveway through the woods. Mickey looks a little betrayed, like he didn’t know the path he’d found led all the way to Ian’s house. He must not have gone any further than the pond, that first day. 

They find the log again by the light of Ian’s phone and sit down, lighting up and passing the joint back and forth. Ian’s tolerance isn’t what it used to be, and it doesn’t take much for his thoughts to start slowing down and growing looser, more disjointed. His whole body feels heavy, and it takes conscious effort to move. Usually when he’s down he likes to try to get back up, somehow, but this is okay too. This is fine.

Mickey is tense beside him, and Ian wonders if it has something to do with him or if it’s from something else entirely. Maybe if they talked, it wouldn’t be as weird sitting here in the silent dark, a good two feet of space between them on the log. But Mickey doesn’t look like much of a talker, even if he does have fucking gorgeous lips. 

Ian needs to not think about that right now. He'll just get horny. 

“You got set up pretty quick,” Ian says, to distract himself, “You’ve been here, what, a month?”

Mickey doesn’t answer.

“What’s the money like?”

“It’s okay,” Mickey says shortly.

Ian is frustrated with all this bullshit. He wants to get past it, back to that raw spark he felt when Mickey was straddling him and they were bleeding and present and everything felt so _real_ , but he doesn’t know how.

“You can kill it,” Ian says, when Mickey passes him the joint. Mickey grunts and takes it back, holds the smoke for a long time in his lungs. He looks a million miles away. When Ian first saw him from a distance he thought they were the same age - got hopeful for a second that there would be someone new to hang out with at school - but when he got up close, he glimpsed the hard, far-away look in Mickey’s eyes and the lines bracketing his mouth now he’s not sure of anything.

“So are you still in high school or did you graduate already?” Ian asks.

Mickey huffs, annoyed, “Didn’t come out here to chit-chat.”

“Oh yeah? What’d you come out here for then?” Ian asks. They’re getting somewhere. His heart rate picks up a little.

Mickey doesn’t respond, but he does get even more tense, body coiled tight, and shit, goddamn it. They were so close, and it’s a fucking disappointment. Ian is so tired of the old dance of trying to figure out if it’s safe to make a move.

“I should get going,” Mickey says, but he doesn’t stand up, keeps staring down at his hands.

“Alright. Yeah,” Ian says.

“I’ll let you know if I get any of that stuff you like,” Mickey says. It sounds almost tentative.

“Yeah, thanks.”

He follows Mickey down the other side of the overgrown driveway to the road even though it’s a shorter walk if he just goes back the way he came. They don’t say anything but even the silence feels significant. Tension is zinging between them in the dark with every brush of their shoulders. Ian is practically electric with how aware he is of Mickey beside him. He doesn’t think he’s the only one.

They part ways at Rande’s trailer, Mickey refusing to say goodnight like a normal person, and Ian giving him one of those shit-eating grins that Lip always said made him want to smack Ian across the face. Looks like Mickey feels the same way about it, because he shakes his head and mutters _fuckin whackjob_ under his breath, before turning away. It hits a little close to the bone but Ian is good at not letting it show.

Ian waits until next Wednesday before texting Mickey again. Nothing special. It’s not like he’s been thinking about this for a week, planning what he’s going to say, what won’t make Mickey bolt or get that awful frozen look like he did when he was buying eggs and something happened - something that Ian couldn’t see or understand - that made him leave, blank-faced with fear.

So he makes it about weed, because that’s easy, and also he’s out. 

 _im in ellenville,_ Mickey replies.

_ok can u come by later?_

_for a 20 bag? aint even worth it_

_shut up and take my money_

Ian wants to imagine Mickey laughing at the weak joke. He probably isn’t. But Ian's in a good mood anyway. He thinks Mickey is fucking with him. Or, he hopes. His phone buzzes a few minutes later.

_meet me by the pond in 30_

So that’s something.

Ian is on his way out the door when Fiona rushes past, a whirlwind of activity like she always is, and asks him to watch over Liam while she drives to the post office. He gets why Fiona doesn’t want Laim alone in the house while she’s out, and Carl and Debbie are busy with extracurriculars (detention and a Future Farmers of America meeting, respectively).

But he asks her anyway, tone just verging on a whine, if he really has to. Fiona snaps back at him, “What if something happened while no one was here? He’s just a kid, Ian. He’s too young to be left alone like that.”

Ian wants to know where this kind of responsible attitude was when he was growing up - wants to demand _since when has a Gallagher ever been too young for anything?_ Fiona is so soft on Liam, though. Ian too. He can’t even bring himself to say any of that shit while Liam is there. So instead he gives Fiona a _you owe me_ look before turning around and chasing Liam from the kitchen to the couch, where they watch an episode of some kids’ cartoon. 

Ian gets it. He does. Liam is the baby who never knew his parents, will never have to deal with the scars they leave. Who wouldn’t want to protect that? Who wouldn’t want to make that last as long as it can?

Mickey looks seriously pissed off when Ian shows up nearly an hour later. Honestly, Ian wasn’t even sure he’d still be waiting. He’s not sure he would have, if he was in Mickey’s shoes.

“The fuck you been doing?” Mickey demands, “You forget or something?”

He’s been drinking - a couple of empties crushed by the log, and when he gets up in Ian’s face, his breath smells slightly alcoholic. It’s a good smell. Now that Ian is here, everything is good, everything is real and happening - the damp forest, Mickey’s breath, the ice of his eyes.

Ian shrugs dismissively, even though he’s feeling the opposite of that, “Got held up at home. You got what I asked for?”

“Jesus Christ. If you seriously think I’m gonna sell to you when you can’t even show up on time, you got another thing coming,” Mickey shakes his head inredulously and takes a step back, but Ian follows him.

“Are you this uptight with all your customers?” Ian asks. He makes it teasing. Flirtatious, even. He’s learning how to get under Mickey’s skin.

“Only the ones who piss me off,” Mickey spits back, and Ian feels crystalline, all his edges sharpening up. He pulls the twenty out of his pocket and holds it up, mocking.

“Guess you don’t want this, then.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows, looking at the twenty dollar bill like it’s a piece of trash Ian is waving in his face, “Price went up. It’s thirty now.”

“What?” Ian drops his hand, “Why?”

“Service charge,” Mickey smirks, and this is it - this is what Ian’s been waiting for. Ian takes a chance and darts forward to kiss him, hard.

Mickey’s lips are chilled from the wind and a little chapped. Ian presses in, searching for the warmth hidden inside Mickey’s mouth, and there’s a split-second where he thinks Mickey won’t react, mouth still and unresponsive, but then Mickey’s lips part slightly beneath Ian’s, and it’s - shit, it’s perfect. Mickey draws in a shuddering breath through his nose, and Ian feels the answering swipe of his tongue. It sends a bolt of arousal down into his belly.

Ian makes a noise, pulling him closer, and for one long moment everything is perfect. And then Mickey shoves him away roughly.

“What the fuck, man? Get off me.”

“Are you serious right now? Don’t tell me you don’t want to,” Ian shoves him right back, “I know you fucking do.”

Mickey throws a punch instead of answering, but Ian is onto him now, and ducks away just in time. They wrestle for a while and it feels like the only thing in the world - just the two of them, the sound of their struggle, the strength of his hands where he’s holding onto Ian so tight, trying to drop him to the ground but not quite managing.

Ian lets Mickey take him down, eventually, twigs sticking sharp into his back through his jacket. Mickey straddles him again, and Ian has a distinct memory of the first time they met, Mickey’s solid weight pinning him down. It’s enough to get Ian’s dick interested.

“You like me like this, huh?” Ian says, and Mickey stiffens over him, a strange look of terror entering his eyes.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Mickey asks. He sounds panicked, caught.  

“Hey, no, I like you like this too,” Ian says, and very deliberately rubs his hand against Mickey’s crotch, “You wanna?”

Mickey bites his lip. He still looks like he’s about to bolt, but he is absolutely, undeniably hard against Ian’s palm. Ian squeezes a little through his jeans and then starts to undo the buckle of Mickey’s belt. Mickey makes a small noise in the back of his throat, swallowing convulsively, and Ian thinks _good_ , keeps going.

This is his favorite part, the moment before he gets his hands on someone else for the first time, all that want and heat building between them. Mickey is breathing hard, chest rising and falling quickly, and when he licks his lips it looks deliberate.

But then the buckle makes a metallic noise as it falls loose and Mickey snaps out of it, suddenly and violently.

“Get your fucking hands off me,” Mickey snarls, and Ian has to roll away to avoid getting punched in the face, “I told to you to get your fucking faggot hands off me.”

“Don’t call me that,” Ian gets to his feet, pissed off now for real - desire and disappointment building together, “You’re the one who shoved your dick in my face, all I did was touch it.”

The punch is immediate and painful. He staggers slightly, then recovers enough to slug Mickey right back.

“I didn’t do fucking anything,” Mickey says. His eyes are wild, and god, if only they could just _fuck,_ it would be so, so good, “You didn’t see me do anything.”

“You’re scared,” Ian accuses, “You’re scared of me. How pathetic is that?” Mickey shakes his head, but Ian knows that’s it, that’s exactly it, he’s figured him out.

“I’m not fucking scared of anything,” Mickey says. His voice is raw and he keeps flexing his hands compulsively, caught between fight or flight.

“Admit it,” Ian insists, “Just _admit it_.”

Mickey freezes for a long moment, barely breathing, and Ian thinks maybe he went too far, shit, shit, what if he did. But then Mickey reaches into his pocket and pulls out a Ziploc baggie of weed, tossing it at Ian’s feet.

“Don’t text me anymore,” He says, and backs up, leaves and twigs snapping underfoot, “You can have this. Just don’t - don’t fucking text me.”

Ian watches him leave and feels almost instantly like shit. He’s such an _asshole._  He lights a cigarette, paces a little.

He went too far, pushed too hard. Ian knows what he’s like, when there's something he wants and he thinks he can see a way to get it. It shouldn’t matter that Ian feels like they’ve known each other for a long time, like there’s an effortless routine they could fall into if they just let themselves. It’s not real. Mickey is a stranger. They don’t know anything about each other.

When Ian gets home, he goes right up the stairs to the bathroom, avoiding Fiona and her judgemental gaze. He inspects himself in the smudged mirror, and turns the shower on so no one will come in, not that it usually stops them. He’s got a scrape on his cheek, bruises on his side and back, dirt in his hair and under his fingernails, and the memory of Mickey’s hard-on against his palm. Fuck.

If Fiona knew what he’s been doing, what he’s gotten himself into _twice_ , she’d say she was worried about him making bad choices, acting impulsively. She’d tell him in that brittle, too-careful voice she gets sometimes that maybe Ian should think about seeing the doctor again.

Ian grips the edge of the sink until his bruised knuckles turn white. Don’t think about that. She’d claim he doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he does - he knows why, too. He wants Mickey. And Mickey wants him too. He thinks. His certainty is faltering now, and he sheds all of his clothes and climbs into the shower to try and escape it. The water is too hot, makes his skin blotchy and red. Sometimes in the shower he can stop thinking about things, or start thinking about them- whatever he needs. Not today.

So he takes his dick and gets it hard, thinking about the hitch in Mickey’s breath when Ian touched him, when Ian asked _you wanna?_ Ian is right about him, he must be. He doesn’t read people wrong anymore, can’t afford to. He jerks off, eyes squeezed shut against the reality of the shower and the running water and his own hand. He imagines Mickey doing it, the way his fingers would feel, rough and tight and too-fast. They way they’d kiss, if Mickey would let him, Mickey’s lips moving against his, holding nothing back. Ian makes a choked-up sound and comes into his fist.

He gets out of the shower and dries off. The heat from the stove in the living room never quite reaches the upstairs rooms, so he gets dressed again quick in the cold air. The warmth of the steam in the bathroom is already fading. He goes to his bedroom and pulls the quilt around his shoulders, settles on his bed to finish the reading for English tomorrow. If this was a year ago, he would be drinking a beer right now, letting the alcohol keep him from dwelling too hard on how he fucked up.

But no. If this was a year ago, he wouldn’t be dwelling at all. So probably better it’s like this - his quilt, his homework, his guilt.

Fiona knocks quietly on his door several hours later and pushes it the rest of the way open when he says she can.

“Heading to bed,” She says. It’s barely ten o’clock but she looks tired, dark circles under her eyes, “Just checking in. Haven’t seen you around much today.”

“Been busy,” Ian shrugs. He turns his head so the bruise on his cheek isn’t as visible, “I got a presentation in English coming up.”

“Oh yeah?” She says, smiling. She sits on the edge of the bed, running her finger along the edges of the geometric design on his quilt, “Remember when we got this?”

“Yeah. That first winter after we moved, Lip found it in a cardboard box at the dump,” Ian smiles too. He remembers that winter - remembers being so cold in their unheated house even with all six of them sleeping downstairs in their clothes, remembers baby Liam wailing through the night. They didn’t bring much with them to New York, only what could fit in the car.

“And then he gave it to you. He’s always looking out for you, you know,” She says, and Ian glances at his copy of _The Things They Carried_ so he doesn’t have to see the earnest, soft look in her eyes.

“I know he thinks he is,” Ian says. Fiona sighs loudly and Ian keeps his mouth shut, eyes down. They’ve had this argument too many times. When Fiona realizes she isn’t going to get anything else out of him, she pats his knee and stands up.

“Want me to get you a glass of water so you can take your pill?”

Ian grits his teeth. No arguing, just push it aside, “I can do it myself,” He looks up at her, at the shadows under her large dark eyes, “Thanks, though.”

“Night, Ian.”

“Night,” He leans his head back against the wall and lets out a long breath once she leaves.

The way she treats him, it’s like instead of getting a year older, he’s gone back in time. She won't even let him take more than three shifts a week at the diner. She claims it’s so he can focus on graduating, but he suspects it’s because she doesn’t trust him.

Not that she has any reason to trust him, after what happened last year. But still. If Ian was bringing in more money, Fiona could afford to take a day off once and a while, and then maybe she wouldn't be so hard to get along with all the time. 

When Ian gets home from school on Thursday, he finds Fiona taking a nap on the couch, still dressed in her work clothes without even a blanket or anything. She looks cold. The wood stove is cold to the touch, too. It makes Ian so angry - her inability to take care of herself. But he bites it back and drops his backpack by the pile of shoes next to the door.

“Debbie, Carl, get me some wood from the pile outside!” He yells, and opens up the top of the stove. There’s a mess of charred kindling and one partially burned log inside. Looks like Fiona started but fell asleep before she could finish lighting it. Typical.

Every winter, Carl starts his usual campaign to get put in charge of keeping the fires going, but after that chimney fire a few years ago, no one lets him. He’s a confirmed pyromaniac. So the chore gets divided up between the others. It’s a pain in the ass, but the alternative is relying on Fiona to do it, which just means it’ll be constantly cold which is ultimately a bigger pain in the ass. 

Fiona wakes up as he’s relighting the kindling and stretches out tiredly, propping herself up on her elbow.

“How was school?” She asks.

“Fine,” Ian says, closes the top of the stove, keeps the damper open. He can hear the fire catching, but it might still die out.

“What about you guys, huh?” She asks the room at large. Carl escapes, but Fiona manages to pull Debbie onto the couch with her. Debbie squirms away, rolling her eyes, but she’s laughing too, “Did you have your FFA meeting today? How’d it go?”

Debbie launches into some story about this cute new Chinchilla the Ag teacher let them play with after the meeting and how much of a fucking bitch her on-again off-again best friend Casey is, and Ian thinks about how _normal_ she seems. He suspects that none of this - her chicken project, the 4H club, her FFA membership - would be happening if they were still in Chicago.

Ian remembers a lot from their old neighborhood, but it’s all out of context, frozen in time. He remembers being a kid on the playground, he remembers the seventh grader on the basketball team he had a huge crush on, although he can’t remember the guy’s name. He remembers the smell of his old house, sirens at night, gunshots. That one time someone blew up a dumpster down the street. That other time someone blew up a car as it was driving down Halsted Avenue.

Ian and his friends were buying ice-cream at the corner store and they ran out when they heard the noise. The car kept going for another half a block until it crashed into a gas station and killed three people plus the driver. Fiona was especially upset about that one. They weren’t in Chicago for much longer after that.

The whole upstate New York thing just clicks for Debbie in a way Ian doesn’t totally understand. She’s a paying member of the Future Farmers of America, for fuck’s sake. She has the ugly blue corduroy jacket and everything. Her chickens win ribbons at the county fair. She wants to go to _Cornell_. That pregnancy scare last year was the most like a Gallagher that Debbie has ever been.

Now that Fiona is awake and the fire is going, she and Ian take the car to run some stuff down to the dump. Carl goes to hang out with this girl he’s been seeing, Debbie gets to work cleaning the chicken coop with Liam both helping and hindering her. Once they’re on their way, Fiona has Ian call Rande to check if she’s looking for anything in particular from the free pile. She tells him to keep his eyes open for all forms of bedding and, if possible, a twin mattress.

“My nephew won’t quit bitching about having to sleep on the couch. He’s driving me fucking nuts,” Rande says.

“Sounds like Mickey,” Ian says. Fiona gives him a sharp look at the name and Ian ignores her.

“You’ve met him?” Rande asks, a note of interest in her hoarse voice.

“Couple times,” Ian says and doesn’t elaborate.

“He’s a real piece of shit, ain’t he?” She laughs, wheezing, “Got that Milkovich charm.”

The name startles him, although it shouldn’t. He knew Rande was a Milkovich. Or, he thinks he knew. The name sounds familiar, anyway.

“Nah, he’s alright,” Ian turns his head to hide his smile against the window. Rande says something back but the connection stutters and Ian tells her, “Losing service, we’ll call you back,” and hangs up.

Fiona stays silent, hands on the steering wheel, eyes on the road, but Ian can practically feel her thoughts broadcasting through the air. He sighs, “Just spit it out already.”

“I’m only going to say this once,” Fiona says, which is usually a blatant lie, “I don’t like you hanging around with that Milkovich kid.”

“Why?” Ian asks, immediately on the defensive. He’s ready for a fight if she is, “And if you say it’s because he’s a bad influence...”

Fiona purses her lips, “He _is_. He’s a piece of shit and I don’t like you spending time with him,” She glances at Ian and takes on a more conciliatory tone, “You need to think about who you’re surrounding yourself with. What kind of people you want in your life if you’re serious about getting better, being stable.”

Ian takes a breath, lets it out. Nope, he’s still fucking mad.

“I’m not going to get better. What part of _incurable mental illness_ don’t you understand?” He gestures angrily to his head, and Fiona flinches, like she thinks he’s going to, what? Hit her? Somtimes he's fucking glad he can't remember half of what he did last year, “I’m going to be stuck with this for the rest of my life. At least let me pick my own friends.”

“I’m not tryin’ to tell you how to live your life -”

“No, that’s exactly what you’re doing. And I’m sick of it, okay? I’m fucking sick.”

Fiona bites her lip and blinks hard. Ian thinks, viciously, _serves her right._ And then he hates himself for it. It’s always like this. They snap at each other like wild animals and then Ian stews in guilt for hours. He tries to remember what it was like before he was diagnosed, but he knows it was going on before then, and can’t pinpoint the moment when something in him changed. Not for lack of trying - he’s spent this whole past year rewriting his past, sorting through his memories, counting every moment that should have tipped him off - tipped _someone_ off - about what was to come.

“I don’t want to fight about this,” Fiona says at last, “Let’s just do what we came here for and go home.”

Ian nods silently, and they turn left at the transfer station. They stop at the kiosk and hand over one of their dump tickets (forged, of course) and park by the recycling bins. The sickly sweet smell of garbage hangs intensely in the cold, damp air, and it makes Ian feel a little nauseous. Maybe it’s the fight they just had, or maybe it’s his meds. Been awhile since they made him throw up, but side effects never really go away. He just gets better at ignoring them.

They sort out their trash - some goes to landfill, some to the recycle bins, and they get two dollars back at the bottle and can deposit - then check out the free pile by the exit.

It’s mostly full of broken TVs and armchairs with the stuffing torn out but there are tons of various household items, too. Ian and Fiona split up for maximum efficiency. Ian crouches beside a cardboard box full of board-games, swollen from water damage, and picks through them. They’ve got a decent collection at home, but now that Ian is medicated and Carl is on probation and Liam is, well, the best kid anyone could ever hope for, Fiona’s been trying to get them all to engage in some wholesome family fun, or whatever.

Ian pulls out a newer version of Risk than the one they’ve got and sets it aside. Debbie’s been saying she could use a new lamp, but the ones here look pretty busted-up, so he moves on to search for bedding for Mickey. It’s weirdly intimate, when he thinks about it. Like he’ll be touching Mickey’s skin, at least indirectly, if he can find anything worthwhile in this musty pile of blankets on the ground. But that line of thinking makes him feel kind of like Debbie, with her frequent crushes. And he’s not fifteen anymore.

He hears Fiona’s cry of success from the other side of the pile, and goes over to join her, bringing the board game and a lightly stained comforter with him.

“Rande is looking for a mattress, right?” Fiona says, and holds up a creased rubber thing, “I think it’s an air-mattress!”

“Or a raft,” Ian suggests, but takes it from her and finds the nozzle, “I guess we should inflate it? Check for leaks?”

Fiona wrinkles her nose, “I’ll let you do the honors. He is your 'friend', after all.”

"Never said we were friends," Ian says, but hisface is a little flushed. What the fuck is wrong with him.

The air mattress works, and Fiona approves the rest of his finds, so they load up in the car with the empty garbage bins and drive home. They stop by Rande’s place first. She meets them at the door, her hair even frizzier than usual, and lets them in to deposit the blanket and mattress on the couch. Ian hasn’t been inside her trailer for a while - it’s almost exactly the same as it always is, but there are small signs of Mickey, too. A pillow and a wadded-up blanket on the couch, a backpack on the floor. Ian wonders where the rest of his stuff is, or if he doesn't have any. 

“Mickey’s not here right now,” Rande tells them, “So that saves you the work of tryna get a thank you outta him.”

“Where is he?” Ian asks, very unsubtly.

“Fuck if I know,” Rande shrugs, “You want me to tell him you said hi?”

“Sure,” Ian says. It will piss Mickey off, which at this point is almost as good as flirting.

One thing’s for sure, Ian thinks as he and Fiona head home. This isn’t about the sex. If all Ian wanted was to fuck, he could find someone, easy. An old fuck-buddy or someone new. He knows how to find what he’s looking for and what to do when he gets it. But Mickey is the opposite of easy, with all mixed signals and the thinly veiled threat of danger, and Ian - well, Ian has always liked a challenge.

It's not a long walk from Ian's school to the Rainbow Diner. He could easily hitch a ride with one of his class-mates, but he likes the twenty minutes to clear his mind and smoke that cigarette he's been craving since fifth period. It's a nice fall day - the leaves are turning orange, and the air smells good, clean. 

The waitresses wave hello as he seats himself at his usual booth to do homework and wait for his shift to start. Mary gets him a cup of coffee and he nurses it for an hour before heading to the back. He used to be a fry cook, but, well. Now he just washes dishes and takes frequent cigarette breaks for $7.25 an hour.

This is another thing Fiona doesn’t want him to do anymore. The doctor agrees. Ian gets it, kind of. He knows his history. He can't look down at his hands without seeing the burn scar pulling tight across his palm. On bad days, he almost agrees with them. But mostly he just comes in to work and loads dishes into the washer and chats with the guys in the kitchen until it’s 11 o’clock and he can bum a ride home with Javier, one of the line cooks.

Javier’s girlfriend Alicia has bipolar too. The same kind as Ian, although she’s worse about taking her meds than he is. They talk about it sometimes - where they’re at in the cycle of ups and downs, what their meds are or aren’t doing, their secrets. Alicia is one of the most open, in-your-face people Ian knows, so she doesn’t really have secrets, but Ian does. There are lots of things he doesn’t tell his family - _can’t_ tell his family. But she never judges him for it.  

She’s late picking them up tonight. Time management isn’t really her thing, so Javier and Ian go out back to sit on overturned crates behind the kitchen and smoke the spliff Javier brought. Ian recognizes the smell of it, faintly floral, and asks, “Did you get this from the new guy?”

“You mean that angry-ass white boy? Yeah,” Javier exhales, “You want some?”

“Just a hit.”

Ian wants to ask more about Mickey. Javier knows he’s gay, so there’s no real reason to play it cool. It’s just instinct at this point.

“What’s his name again?” Ian asks, probably sounding the opposite of cool, “I forgot.”

Javier looks at him strangely, “He didn’t tell me his name. Weird fuckin dude. Good weed though, gave me a great deal on an ounce.”

“Yeah, Mick - he’s weird,” Ian smiles, tries not to smile, “I know his aunt. She’s pretty weird too.”

“No shit?” Javier asks. His phone goes off just as a set of headlights pull into the empty parking lot, “Alicia’s here.”

Javier locks up the kitchen door and hides the key in its usual place. Alicia waves at them out the open car window, a lit cigarette clenched between her fingers, smoke spilling out into the air.

“Hey, _amorecita_ ,” Javier leans down to kiss her, then goes to the passenger side.

“No, no, no, get in the back,” She says, shooing him out, “I want to talk to Ian.”

“I thought I was your favorite,” Javier pouts.

“What gave you that idea?” She says, and Ian climbs in next to her. He glances at Javier through the rear-view mirror and jokes, “You jealous?”

Javier shrugs, easy-going, and buckles himself in. Alicia is a terrible driver, “Her car, her rules.”

She wants to talk to Ian about a new anti-psychotic her doctor prescribed her, the same one Ian takes. Then they move on to talking about what they’re going to do for Ian’s birthday. Alicia’s thinking a party at her and Javi’s place, “Invite everyone you know. Your family too. We’ll make it a whole big thing.”

Ian promises to think about it. Alicia tends to make a lot of plans and doesn’t always follow through. It’s not like Ian is any better. So he’ll just see what happens. Debbie and Carl talked about wanting to do some kind of celebration at home, but it’s looking less and less likely. Lip is in the middle of midterms and can’t come down for the night, and gone are the days of good parties at the Gallagher house, back when Fiona didn’t give a shit about what he did and where he went.

“You deserve it,” Alicia tells him firmly, “You’ve been doin’ so good, you deserve to celebrate.”

“Tell that to my sister,” Ian says.

“I will, I’ll call her up right now, just give me her number,” Alicia says, but she doesn’t mean it. She knows better than to fuck with Fiona Gallagher.

Ian likes Alicia a lot. At this point she’s probably one of his closest friends. Javier, too. He has chronic back pain, so he smokes a lot of weed. A hundred dollars’ worth every week. It cuts into his paycheck, but he refuses to get a prescription for pain meds. There’s a story there but Ian doesn’t know the details. Sometimes Alicia makes this kind of cream, like cannabutter, out of shake for him to rub on his back. Javier says it works. When she’s manic, she’s always thinking of ways to make everyone’s lives better. She’s one of the best people Ian knows.

When Ian gets back, the whole house is asleep and the porch light is off. He tries the door but it’s locked - this weird thing Fiona has been doing lately - so he digs around under the doormat by the light of his phone for the key, only it isn’t there. Or it is, but he can’t find it. Ian sits down on the porch steps and lights a cigarette, weighting out his options. He could call Fiona. She might still be up, it's only half-past eleven. But her shift starts at the diner in less than five hours, he’s trying not to be as much of an inconsiderate shit these days.

So he calls Mickey. It’s a risk, but there’s a light on a Rande’s place, and he just - he wants to see Mickey again, even though it’s only been a couple days. Even though they left things on pretty bad terms.

Mickey picks up on the third ring, sounding grumpy. 

“The fuck are you calling me for, Gallagher,” He barks, and Ian has to stifle a smile.

“Want to come over to my place and help me break in?” Ian asks, and hears the wheels turning in Mickey’s mind.

“You want me to _what_?”

“I said, come over and help me break into my house.”

“You get kicked out or something?” Mickey asks, suddenly intent. It’s not where Ian’s mind would have gone, but still. Valid question.

“Nah. Just can’t find the key.”

There’s a long pause, “So let me get this straight. I told you to stop texting me and you interpreted that as me sayin’ you could _call_ me instead?”

“Pretty much,” Ian says. He knows how irritating he sounds, but he can't help himself. 

“I ain’t interested in helping solve your fuckin’ problems.”

Ian expected as much. His hand is a little sweaty where he’s holding his phone, despite the cold. He really wants Mickey to say yes. 

“Look, I get it," Ian says, biting the bullet, "You’re not gay. I get it. I made a mistake. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Silence.

“If you fucking touch me again, I’ll -”

“I won’t, okay?” Ian cuts him off, “I won’t.”

Mickey takes a shaky breath, and Ian remembers the look of terror in his eyes as they pulled apart. He's not going to push things, this time. He's no. 

“Alright. Okay,” Mickey sounds like it’s the last thing in the world he wants, “Gimme ten minutes.”

They hang up, and Ian smokes the rest of his cigarette. Doesn’t get through the whole thing without needing to get up and pace. Mickey’s coming.

“You’re gonna owe me big time, Red,” Mickey says when he gets there, and goes right to the door, jiggling the handle. Still locked, “Any windows that open from the outside?”

“None of them lock,” Ian tells him, “But most of ‘em got painted shut when Debbie and Fiona decided to re-do all the trim.”

Mickey swears, and heads round the side of the house towards the chicken coop. Ian follows him and watches Mickey try every window with practiced ease. Still no luck by the time they get to the living room window, though, and Mickey hits the wooden siding in frustration, “Fucking help me out here, Gallagher.”

His voice is too loud in the night stillness and it wakes the chickens. They start squawking and making a racket, all _intruder alert!_ which frustrates Mickey even more, “Jesus fucking Christ, I hate living out in the sticks. Can’t you get them to shut up?”

“Nope,” Ian says, laughing. But he comes over to help Mickey with the windows anyway. The chickens definitely annoyed him too, when Debbie first got them.

They find one window in the downstairs bathroom that has, miraculously, escaped Debbie’s paintbrush, and Mickey shoves it open, holding it up so Ian can climb through.

“You want to come in?” Ian asks, sticking his head back out, “I got Call of Duty. We’ll have to turn down the volume, but...”

“No fuckin way,” Mickey shakes his head, backing up, “I didn’t come here to hang out. I'm going home." 

"C'mon man. You seriously saved my ass. Let me pay you back somehow," Ian says, and as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he knows Mickey will say no. Hard no. 

So he continues, a thousand times more patiently than he feels, "I promise my gay isn't contagious."

Mickey looks at the peeling paint on the windowsill, biting the inside of his cheek. Fuck he’s hot. Ian waits for him, still leaning out the window even though it's kind of hurting his back. He can't read the expression on Mickey's face. 

“You got any beer? Rande’s out,” Mickey asks at last, and Ian does a mental fist pump.

“Yeah, we got beer.”

“Okay,” Mickey nods curtly, “But I am _not_ climbing through that fucking window.”

“I’ll go open the door, hang on a sec,” Ian pulls his head back into the bathroom and slides the window down. It’s loud but Fiona can sleep through practically everything. That’s why she’s got five extra alarms on her phone, just in case.

Ian lets Mickey in through the front door and takes him into the living room. He doesn’t turn on any lights - he likes it better this way, just the two of them in the dark. But Mickey makes an annoyed sound and says, “Turn on a fucking light, man. Can’t see for shit in here.”

So Ian does. Just one, though, the little lamp on the side table. It casts a yellow glow on Mickey’s matter-of-face face, his full bottom lip. He tells Mickey to grab himself a beer out of the fridge if he wants to, and goes to throw a couple logs into the stove so it won’t burn out. The fridge door rattles and Mickey grumbles something from behind him about _fuckin Bud Light are you kidding me._ Ian doesn’t laugh but he feels the promise of laughter in his chest, warm and golden.

But it hits him as he's kneeling by the TV, setting up the Xbox, what his doctor would say, and the good feeling starts to drain away. Risk-taking, impulsive behavior. Making bad decisons in the moment that could have lasting consequences. Decisions that don't even seem bad in the moment, because he wants them so much. 

He thinks about it. It’s a good sign if he can think about it. It’s a better sign if he can stop himself from doing it.

He sits back on his heels and runs through the checklist. Quick, so Mickey won’t notice. Today was a good day. Slept enough. Six-ish hours. Not as tired as he usually is after work but that’s because Mickey is here. Elevated mood. Mickey is here.

Mickey tried to beat the shit out of him last time he made a move. That should be enough to put a stop to it, but it’s not. His doctor would ask him why. Think about the checklist, Ian.

“What’s taking so long?” Mickey asks from behind him. Ian looks back. Mickey is sitting all the way forward on the couch, picking at the ragged cuticle of his thumb. He looks painfully uncertain under his mask of annoyance.

“Couldn’t find the second controller,” Ian holds it up, puts on a smile, “We’re good to go.”

He settles a reasonable distance away from Mickey on the couch. He understands the rules of no-homo - he's not an idiot.

“Get ready to get your ass kicked,” Ian says, and Mickey smirks, relaxing into the cushions and propping his feet up on the coffee table.

“Watch and learn.”

Mickey is good, Ian will give him that. Ian still hasn’t met anyone who’s better than him when he’s up - trigger-happy, heightened reflexes, mind moving faster than the game - but Mickey could probably give him a run for his money.

They pause the game so Mickey can get another beer, and it takes half a second before Ian thinks _chips!_ and goes to the kitchen cabinet to see if Carl left him any. He’s kind of hungry. He should be - he forgot to eat dinner. That happens sometimes, up or down. It happens.

“What kinda Pringles you got?” Mickey asks, and Ian shows him the container, “Eh, alright. BBQ flavor’s better, though.”

“Next time, you bring the snacks,” Ian says, and Mickey rolls his eyes.

“There ain’t gonna be a next time, douchebag,” He says, but he’s lying. Ian knows he’s lying. He can see it in the way Mickey’s eyes cut over to watch him when he thinks Ian isn’t looking.

Ian’s concentration is shot to shit with Mickey next to him. He can smell Mickey's sweat, faintly, and it's awesome. 

Ian’s concentration is totally shot to shit, and he gets killed a couple (well, four or five) more times than he normally would. Mickey finds this hilarious, because it turns out he’s kind of a competitive asshole, but Ian doesn’t mind. Not really. He's having fun. He hasn't had fun in a long time. 

“You said you hate living in the sticks,” Ian says, casual, “Where’d you used to live before?”  

Maybe it seems a little more out of the blue than it feels, because Mickey’s gaze snaps over to him and his player narrowly misses getting blown up.

Mickey curses and mashes some buttons, “You tryina get me killed, Gallagher?”

“Hey, whatever works,” Ian grins, “But seriously, where’d you move here from?”

Mickey frowns at the screen, “You already know the answer to that.”

“I really don’t.”

Ian pauses the game for both their sakes. He thinks about offering up some information of his own - about growing up in Chicago, what it was like to leave. How long it took him to get used to the silence at night, the empty country roads. But he stays quiet and watches as Mickey shifts nervously, fingers tapping against his knee.

“Brooklyn. I used to live in Brooklyn.”

“Cool. What part?” Ian goes there sometimes, mostly Williamsburg, when he wants to find a date. He hasn’t had a date in a while. Almost a year. The doctor has suggested that fucking strangers when he’s up is a ticket to a bad experience and Ian agrees, most of the time.

“Uh. Brighton Beach,” Mickey says it like a question.

“Is that where the rest of your family lives?” Ian knows he’s being nosy, but whatever. The game is paused and he was losing anyway.

“My ma’s dead, but her mother’s there, my grandmother,” Mickey takes a sip of beer and licks his lips.

“Were you living with her?”

Mickey shakes his head, looking down at the can in his hands, “Nah. She can’t speak a word of English.”

When Ian makes an inquiring noise, Mickey explains, “Ukrainian.”

“You too?”

“Both sides,” Mickey says, sounding almost proud. He rolls up his sleeve and shows Ian a poorly-done tattoo on his forearm - some three-pronged symbol - like it’s supposed to mean something to him, then says, “I was living on my own.”

“Wish I could say the same,” Ian watches Mickey push his sleeve down again. He’s got thick fingers and broad palms. Knuckles perpetually swollen, like they’ve been bashed too many times. 

Mickey takes a swig of beer then holds it out to Ian just casually enough for Ian to know it’s not casual, “You want the rest?”

For a second, Ian hesitates. He knows he shouldn't. But he takes the can and drains it anyway, focusing on the carbonation fizzing on his tongue, the watery-sour taste. Fuck, it’s been so long.

“It’s just fucking Budweiser, man,” Mickey says with the eyebrows of judgement, “It’s not that great. Don’t drink much?”

“Not anymore,” Ian doesn’t bother to stifle his burp, “I miss it, though. Tastes good.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Guess I am,” Ian says. He means it to sound joking but the words come out bitter. Mickey gives him the eyebrows again, huffs when Ian doesn’t respond.

“Whatever, man. We playing here or what?” Mickey gestures to the TV and Ian unpauses the game.

They go for a while longer until Mickey unlocks a new grade of weapon, then by unspoken agreement they take another break so Mickey can piss and get another beer. It’s late, probably. Ian isn’t checking the clock. He can feel the alcohol hitting him - that dizzy, slow feeling - and he wants to sink into it forever.

“Just bring the six-pack over!” Ian calls, and Mickey does. Ian edges closer to him on the couch, trying to make it look subtle. He feels thirteen years old again, desperate to touch a boy, desperate to be touched, any way he can.

“Don’t crowd me, asshole,” Mickey snaps, cheeks flushed, and Ian shifts over quick, putting a foot of space back between them. His skin is tingling with the ghost of Mickey’s warmth. In their little pool of light, encompassing the couch and nothing else, anything feels possible. It would be so easy to just reach over, run his hand up Mickey’s thigh. Unzip Mickey’s fly and take his dick out. Jerk him off right here on the couch.

Ian stops that train of thought before it leaves the station.

Mickey said _don’t touch me_. Called him a faggot _._ Ian has no doubt his siblings would wake up if they heard some kind of fight. Eventually. But by then the damage would be done. It’s just - if Mickey isn’t into this, then Ian has no idea why Mickey is here. _I didn’t come here to chit-chat_ , Mickey had told him, out by the pond. _I didn’t come here to make friends_.

“You want a beer of your own?” Mickey asks. 

“Nah,” Ian says, and he sounds about as casual as Mickey did earlier, “I’m good to share yours, though. I’m a lightweight.”

“No shit,” Mickey takes a sip and passes the can over. Ian drinks, his lips where Mickey’s had been only a second ago. It feels oddly intimate, for such a small thing. Fuck, Ian wants him so bad, but he's going to hold back, he's going to do this right. 

“Hey, so, I don't have work on Wednesday, if you want to -”

There’s a noise from the kitchen and Mickey shoots up from the couch like he’s ready to fight.   
  
“What?” Ian asks, “Where’re you going?”

“I’m done with all this fucking talking,” Mickey says, glancing behind him, eyes wide. Scanning the area for threats, Ian realizes. And then he’s gone, the front door slamming behind him. Debbie pads into the living room a moment later, dressed in pajamas and holding a glass of water.

“Who was that?” She asks sleepily, looking past him at the lit-up TV.

“No one,” Ian answers quickly, “Just a friend.”

She nods, “Okay. You comin’ up?”

“Yeah. Just - I’ll be up in a second,” He waits for her to leave before he sinks into the couch, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes. One step forward, two steps back. He thinks about going upstairs. He thinks about jerking off. Neither one is particularly appealing. He loves his sister, but right now he hates her _so much_ for interrupting.

Heavy footsteps sound on the front porch, and Ian’s skin immediately prickles with warning. Mickey’s gone, and not coming back, and no one should be wandering around outside at this hour.

Ian jumps to his feet, heart pounding. He goes for the baseball bat before he realizes it isn’t there, hasn’t been for a long time. His fault, of course.

The front door opens slowly, a long faint squeak of hinges, and Ian crouches down behind the couch, adrenaline coursing through him. He should’ve locked it - Fiona is going to be so mad if they get robbed. Ian could probably fight whoever it is off, but not if the guy has a gun.

“Who is it?” He shout-whispers, peering over the top of the couch, and shit - it’s _Mickey_. 

"What are you doing here?" Ian asks, but Mickey doesn't answer, just walks right up to him and yanks him to his feet by the think fabric of his t-shirt. It tears a little, in his grip.

"What the hell?" Ian asks, angry now. He didn't even _do_ anything. 

"Shut the fuck up," Mickey says, and Ian has only a split-second to process what the fuck is even happening before Mickey is kissing him.

Mickey is _kissing him_.

Ian gets with the program pretty quick after that, and starts kissing him back, hands on Mickey’s hips, pulling him in. Mickey kisses angry - like he’s punishing Ian for something, like he wants it to _hurt._ All intensity and teeth and a bruising grip on the back of Ian’s neck.

It’s really getting Ian going. He wants to get his hands on Mickey’s skin, his dick, wants to kiss him until they bleed, until they become each other and there's nothing left in the world but this. 

Mickey backs him up, pressing Ian against the wall where the baseball bat used to hang. The nail is sticking into his back a little, a barely noticeable point of pain. Ian dips his fingers below the elastic of his boxers and Mickey makes a low noise and pulls away, breathing hard into the narrow space between them.

“Tell anyone about this and I’ll fuckin kill you,” Mickey says. His eyes are dark and serious in the low light, and Ian believes him, almost.

“C’mon man, who’d even believe me if I told?” Ian asks, and Mickey's brow furrows.

“I’m not playin’ around here,” Mickey says, “You wanna get shot, that’s your goddamn problem.”

It’s kind of thrilling, the way Mickey’s threatening him even though Mickey’s dick is blatantly, undeniably hard against Ian’s thigh. 

“Don’t worry,” Ian says. He lowers his voice, “I can keep a secret.”

He can feel the way Mickey is just barely holding himself back from grinding against Ian’s thigh. He wants to tell Mickey to let go and let Ian feel him, how much he wants it, but that's exactly the kind of talk that gets him in trouble, so he stops himself. 

“This ain’t gonna happen again either, so don’t get any big ideas,” Mickey says, eyes still deadlocked on Ian’s.

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Ian says, and barely manages to not sound patronizing. He knows how this goes - he’s played this game before. 

Mickey doesn’t relax after that, exactly, but something in his face eases and Ian thinks  _it's on._ He flips them around, so now it's Mickey who's against the wall, now, Ian's hands sliding underneath Mickey’s jacket to the soft skin of his sides.

Ian kisses him again, hard enough to knock Mickey back a final inch against the wall so his head hits with a hollow thump. Mickey shudders.

“Fuck, Gallagher,” He groans into Ian’s mouth, “Fuck, you’re so -”

“Tell me,” Ian says, low, and slides his hands down over Mickey’s jeans to squeeze his gorgeous ass.

Mickey makes a sound at that, a little choked, “You get me so hard,” He manages, “You make me wanna do crazy shit.”

“Crazy like what?” Ian asks, lips brushing Mickey’s ear, getting him to shiver again.

“You make me wanna suck your dick,” Mickey says hoarsely, “You make me wanna get your dick in me and ride you.”

And oh, fuck. That’s exactly what Ian’s been waiting to hear. He rolls his hips against Mickey’s so Mickey can feel how hard he is, “I wanna fuck you so bad, you have no idea.”

“Can’t,” Mickey says, almost regretful, “I didn’t - we can’t.”

Ian’s not disappointed - there’s way more prep that goes into bottoming, he knows that. Admittedly, the few times he’s done it, he wasn’t exactly planning things out in advance. But that was him, that was then.  

“Suck my dick instead,” Ian says, “I wanna get inside you, wanna feel you.”

Mickey licks his lips, considering it, and then he drops to his knees, unzipping Ian’s jeans with unsteady hands.

It quickly becomes obvious he hasn’t done this a lot. He’s not totally inexperienced, Ian’s been on the receiving end of enough blowjobs to know that, but it’s a close thing. Mickey is sloppy, spit running down his chin as he tries to take Ian deeper and chokes, pulling off to catch his breath.

“Hey, you don’t have to,” Ian says, and Mickey gives him a look as he wipes his mouth off with his sleeve.

"You complaining?" Mickey asks. 

"Nope, no," Ian says, grinning, "Not at all." 

"Good," Mickey says, and slides his lips over the head of Ian’s dick again. 

Usually Ian likes his partners to know what they’re doing, but this is almost better - knowing he gets to Mickey this much, makes him want to do things he wouldn't normally do. 

And really, a blowjob is a blowjob is a blowjob, and the way Mickey kneads his balls, that’s really working, and Ian’s got his hands in his hair, and that seems to be really working for Mickey too, judging by the sounds he’s making as he keeps fucking his mouth on Ian’s dick.

“That’s it, yeah,” Ian says. It's the kind of shit he always says, but it feels different this time, "You look good like this, on your knees for me like this.”

Mickey moans around Ian’s dick, the vibrations setting off sparks in Ian’s groin, and then he lets go of Ian’s balls to start jerking himself off, desperately, like he can’t help himself.

That gets Ian to the edge, just seeing that short quick motion of Mickey’s arm, and it’s not long until Ian tugs hard on Mickey’s hair, biting out, “Get off, I’m gonna -”

And then he comes anyway, into Mickey’s perfect, swollen mouth. Mickey groans, and pulls off, spitting pretty much immediately onto the floor.

“You’re cleaning that up,” Ian says, and then kind of wants to kick himself, “Fuck, Mickey. That was so good. Want me to -”

But Mickey shakes his head, bracing himself against Ian’s hip as he jerks himself the rest of the way off, coming with a bitten-off noise into his hand.

“Fuck,” Mickey echoes when he’s finished, leaning his cheek against the bare skin of Ian’s hip, collecting himself.

Ian likes the quiet moments after sex. They used to be kind of fraught, back when he was exclusively fucking closeted guys, but he hasn't been doing that much anymore. It's been nice. 

He reaches down to touch the exposed nape of Mickey’s neck, a vulnerable stretch of pale skin and dark hair, and Mickey sighs. 

Ian wants to ask what’s going on, why Mickey had to threaten Ian’s life just to feel comfortable doing what they’ve done. But he’s afraid Mickey will shut him down if he asks. So instead he says, "I was telling you earlier that I have a day off on Wednesday if you wanna hang out again."

Mickey doesn’t respond for a long moment. Then he heaves himself to his feet, tucking himself back into his jeans. He won’t look at Ian, and Ian starts to feel cold.

“Didn’t you get the message, Gallagher?” Mickey says, and oh, his voice is _wrecked_ , “This was a one-time deal. We’re through. No hanging out, no more texting me, no more fuckin' phone calls, alright?”

That stings. It always does, no matter how many times Ian’s heard it.

“What if I want to buy weed?” He asks, putting the challenge back into his voice even though he’s not feeling it.

“Then buy from somebody else,” Mickey says, and scuffs the toe of his boot against the floor, smearing Ian’s come into the bare wood, “I’m done with you.”

Ian crosses his arms. He really, really hates this part. It makes him feel powerless and dirty, and it’s the entire reason he doesn’t fool around with upstate boys anymore. They always get under his skin.

“Go fuck yourself,” Ian spits.

Mickey just raises an eyebrow and mimes shooting him in the head.

“You breathe a word and you’re dead,” Mickey reminds him, and then he’s gone, back out into the night.  

Ian takes a long shower before going to bed. He knows Mickey’s type - he’ll be back eventually, begging for it, unable to take one more day of lying to himself. But knowing that doesn’t make Ian feel any better as he stands under the hot water, scalding the chill away. 

He should have paid more attention to the warning signs, Ian knows that. He always knows. Bad decisions, meet consequences. Story of his goddamn life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhh let's see - nothing you wouldn't find in canon, including referenced self-harm, mental illness, violence, sex, internalized homophobia, etc

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: canon-typical pretty much everything, such as the use of homophobic slurs & gay-bashing, very briefly referenced sexual assault (of Mickey, of Mandy), brief ableist language, gratuitous violence, alcohol & drug use.


End file.
